You would remember those words later with the kind of bitterness that lives a long time.
At first, the evening moved the way these evenings always did. Too much laughter, too much bourbon, too much pretending. Your father told the same three stories about his career in commercial real estate, each one polished into legend over time until he sounded less like a man who bought office parks and more like a war hero who had liberated downtown Cleveland with a spreadsheet. Guests nodded on cue. Rebecca laughed a beat too hard. Your mother refilled glasses before anyone had to ask.
Lily stayed close to you at first.
She wore white sandals and carried a stuffed rabbit with one bent ear, though she kept setting it down and forgetting where. She was small for her age, with dark curls and wide, observant eyes that made strangers lower their voices without knowing why. She had Ben’s patience and your tendency to study a room before deciding whether it was safe.
She didn’t like your father.
