At my sister’s wedding reception, my mother stood up and told all 200 guests, “At least she wasn’t a complete failure like my other daughter. Even her birth ruined my life and destroyed my dreams.”

My father, George, came from a family obsessed with appearances.

He hated that they had to marry young, hated the whispers, hated how ordinary and messy life became.

He never said he wished I hadn’t been born, not in so many words, but he said enough adjacent things that the message landed all the same.

Then Clara came along.

Planned.