Favourite Daughter. Kaira Rouda

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      Betsy’s disdain face has been replaced by something else. Her mouth drops open. She didn’t know.

      “What are you talking about? Have you been drinking? Popping pills?” She throws her hands on her hips, ready to argue with me.

      “No, of course not. I had coffee with Mary’s birth mother, you remember Elizabeth? Mary told you all about her.”

      “So, that’s old news. You always told Mary she was adopted. I still don’t know why you made such a big deal about her wanting to meet her birth mom.” Betsy shakes her head.

      She’s trying to act like this revelation doesn’t matter, that it isn’t true, but I can see the stress in her clenched jaw, her rigid posture.

      “It is a big deal. All of it.” I know my voice is cold, hard.

      Betsy takes a step back. “You’re lying about Dad, aren’t you?”

      I fight a surprise burst of emotion threatening to choke my voice. “No, I’m not. We were married when he, well...” I cover my face with my hands, push tears from my eyes.

      Betsy leans against the counter, deciding what to think.

      I mumble, “I’m devastated.”

      “Did Dad tell you this is true?” she asks.

      “No.” I sob. “Haven’t talked to him yet. But it’s true. Your dad is a liar. I’m sorry.” I’ve needed a little leverage, something to force a space between them. I’ve found it.

      “I have to go to school. I need to get out of here. It’s all screwed up, everything. I mean, when are you going to get rid of Cash’s dog bowl?” She points at the white porcelain bowl tucked under the kitchen island. The words—Love. Eat. Play. Cash.—are glazed in black block lettering on the side of the bowl.

      Obvious change of subject, darling daughter, but fine, I’ll play. “Oh, does it bother you?”

      “Kinda, yeah. He died six months ago.” Betsy yanks open the refrigerator, hiding her tears.

      As if I didn’t know when he died. But I need to be patient and kind with her. It’s a hard day, the anniversary of Mary’s death. Learning your dad has cheated, fathered a baby who became your sister. It’s a lot. I remind myself I need to smother her with warmth and cheer and support. Besides, she’ll love the new house and we’ll just put all this nastiness behind us.

      I say, “I can put the bowl away if it bothers you.” I flash her a big, fake beaming smile. My jeans are sagging and I yank them up on my waist.

      Betsy closes the refrigerator. She holds a container of pomegranate seeds, a healthy choice. I’m proud. I always worry about her weight ballooning up. “You know what? It does. It bothers me. And that’s not the only thing wrong. I cannot believe I have to go celebrate Mary’s death today, like I don’t think about her, miss her, every single minute.”

      I try to catch her arm but she darts past me, stopping at the door to the kitchen, watching me.

      Tears fill my eyes, running down my cheeks. “I miss Mary every minute, too. That’s why I care about you so much. You’re my only focus now. We’ll sit together at the ceremony, I’ll be there for you, Betsy. You can lean on me.”

      My tears match Betsy’s. Poor girl. I’m the only parent she needs. I hope she confronts David for me. That would be much more satisfying. He’d be crushed by the disappointment. It’s so important to him to be the hero, Betsy’s perfect dad. Not anymore. Not ever again, it seems.

      She wipes her face with her sleeve. “I can’t cry anymore. I can’t do this. I can’t listen to you and your lies. I have to go.” She’s gone, out the door before I can remind her to be home in time for the ceremony. I know she heard me, though. She heard the truth about her philandering father.

      A text pops up on my phone: I’m here.

      I glance at the time and can’t believe it’s already 10:45 a.m. Such a busy morning. I grab my purse and hustle through the almost tree-free courtyard and out to the street. Sam, my driver of sorts, jumps out of the front seat and opens the passenger door behind the driver’s seat.

      His hair is brown and unruly. Always. As if he doesn’t own a comb. “Hey, Mrs. H.”

      “Hi, Sam. I took your suggestion and finally did something nice for myself. I had a manicurist come by the house. What do you think?” I flutter the fingers of my right hand.

      “Glad you did something nice for you for a change, instead of just taking care of everybody else like you tell me you do. You know, when you’re not sad.”

      I slide into the back seat. He closes the door behind me and hurries to the driver’s seat. When he gets in I say, “Yes, motherhood is trying sometimes. Sorry to keep you waiting. I was just finishing up the breakfast dishes. Betsy and I had a lovely meal together. She’s such a wonderful young woman, so sweet.”

      He meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. His eyes are dark, widely spaced, caring. “Glad you two are getting along. I know today is a hard day.”

      I may complain to Sam too much about Betsy. I’ll change that, perhaps. But I’ll start tomorrow. It’s so easy to talk to Sam, unlike my family members. And he’s always on my side. I allow him to see me open my purse, reach for tissues. My facade of cheer crumbles. The ceremony is tonight. “It’s such a hard day. One year since Mary died. And can I confide in you, Sam?”

      “Of course, Mrs. H.”

      “Betsy isn’t really nice to me. She’s mean.”

      “You’ve told me that. I’m sorry. Maybe she’s sad.”

      I shrug. “That could be it. Or maybe it’s something else? Guilt?”

      Sam meets my eyes in the mirror. “Guilt? For being mean to you?”

      No. It’s so hard to get people to see things sometimes. “No, for fighting with her sister, at the park, on the day Mary died. Never mind. It’s not important. I’m saying too much.”

      “It’s okay, Mrs. H., you can tell me anything.” Sam and I have been together now since a month after Mary’s funeral. I don’t drive much anymore, or so I tell him. It fits with my grief and I like being chauffeured by a person who listens to my every command. Sam takes me most of the places I need to go. He still drives for Lyft, but he blocks out our schedule: doctor’s visits, grocery store trips. And Friday morning, whatever errands I need to run, if I can get myself up and out of the house and away from my addicting computer.

      Some errands I handle on my own, but he doesn’t know that. “Well, let’s see. I don’t think I have to worry about Mary’s birth mother showing up and ruining things this evening, so that’s good.” I love being able to confide in Sam. He is so loyal. Like a friend. I smile at the thought.

      Sam says, “You don’t like Elizabeth, that much I know. But how do you know she won’t be there?”

      “I made it clear she isn’t welcome. We had coffee this morning.” Oops, I sound a bit mean. I soften my voice. “I hope she listened. I asked her to see things from my point of view. I’ve lost so much.” I dab at my eye with a tissue. Sam looks concerned. He’s watching in the rearview mirror.

      “Do you have a dress for tonight?” he asks.

      I haven’t given my attire much thought. Funny, I’ve been imagining my coming-out party, but not my dress. Sure, I could wear the orange silk one I’d expected to wear last night, still hanging up with the expensive price tag dangling under the arm. But no, Sam’s right. Why not splurge? I need to look good. Focus on the future. David owes me some retail therapy.

      Sam turns into the parking lot of the office building and into a reserved space.

      I say, “I suppose I do need to find a sunset color dress. That’s what the invitation says. Any ideas?”