The six-month mark is a deceptive milestone. In a relationship, it’s when the honeymoon phase ends. In a tragedy, it’s when the casseroles stop coming. In our situation—this strange, grafted-together family dynamic—it was when the polite veneer began to crack, revealing the complex, jagged edges underneath.
We were “making it work,” as I told anyone who asked, but the definition of “work” was fluid. Alyssa was no longer just the paid caregiver, but she wasn’t quite fully “Sister” yet either. She existed in a liminal space, a gray area that confused the neighbors and terrified my accountant.
The first major hurdle wasn’t emotional; it was bureaucratic.
Three weeks after the DNA test, Mom insisted we go to the family attorney, Mr. Abernathy. His office smelled of lemon polish and old leather, a scent I associated with my father’s estate planning and the drafting of wills. It was a room where history was codified into law.
