During Mother’s Day dinner, my sister proudly announced that her third baby was on the way. My mother clapped her hands and said, “This is everything I ever wanted.”

Then my father looked straight at me and said, “You’ll be helping with the kids.” I froze. “Excuse me?” My sister rolled her eyes. “You’re not doing anything with your life anyway. This will give you purpose.”

The morning after Mother’s Day, the police called me before my family did.

That should have told me everything.

My phone started vibrating across my nightstand at 8:12 a.m., dragging me out of the thin, bitter sleep I had finally fallen into sometime after dawn. Unknown number. For a few seconds, I just stared at it through swollen eyes, still wearing yesterday’s clothes, still smelling faintly like roasted chicken, lemon cake, and the perfume my mother sprayed too heavily whenever she wanted a room to feel controlled.