Page 48 of Count My Lies

“I know,” I say, giving a small, apologetic laugh. “It’s a big ask. Monumental. But Jay’s parents are in their late seventies. In a few years, they won’t have the capacity to take care of her.” Also, they barely had the capacity to take care of their own kids. Look how Jay turned out.

“But…” Sloane is still gaping at me. “What about your family?”

“We’re not particularly close.” I say it lightly, shrugging. It’s a gross understatement; we haven’t spoken since I left San Francisco. I plan never to speak to them again.

Growing up, my relationship with my parents had always been strained. When I was little, I was pawned off to nannies and tutors, shuttled from piano to ballet, horseback riding on the weekends. I ate dinner with the housekeeper, wishing I had a sibling to eat with instead, while my parents worked long hours, my dad a partner at his law firm, my mother a well-regarded art dealer. They never bothered to kiss me good night when they got home, never tucked me in. If I was ever pulled into a hug, it was with stiff arms, left me cold. I was merely an accessory to their busy lives, a collectible from Christie’s, a Porta Volta chair, admired but never sat in. We were publicly cordial because I was required to be—any perceived disrespect would be met with a sharp slap—but privately distant. The expectation was clear: I played the part of the perfect daughter, my private school uniforms hand-pressed and wrinkle-free, my hair neatly combed, while they played theirs, well-dressed, well-coiffed, smiles bright. My father was handsome, my mother beautiful, both gregarious.

Everything was about appearances, our lives just for show. It was stifling, at best. I felt like a plastic doll they occasionally took out of its packaging, then stored back on the shelf, the closet door shut tightly behind them. They never knew me, never wanted to.

I stood it as long as I could, resentment eating me from the inside out, until I had to surface for air, my lungs on fire. I’d just turned seventeen, at the tail end of my junior year in high school, when it finally became too much to bear.

I’d come home early from school—I had a headache, I think—had pulled into the driveway, was sitting in my car, checking a text that had just come through. When I looked up, about to get out, I saw our front door open. A woman stepped out, her blonde hair swept up into a twist. I’d never seen her before.

My father appeared behind her. He hooked her by the waist and she turned, smiling flirtatiously up at him. Then, he kissed her, hard, his hand sliding over the curve of her hip. My heart dropped into my stomach, a brick. I felt sick.

That evening, I stood nervously in the doorway of my parents’ bathroom, picking at my nails. My mother was removing her makeup; my dad was at a late dinner with clients. “Stop that,” she said without turning around. She hated it when I picked. I put my hands by my sides, cleared my throat. “I saw Dad,” I started, haltingly. “This afternoon. With—”

“I know,” she said, not letting me finish. She didn’t look at me, staring into the mirror instead as she applied eye cream, dabbing gently. Then she met my eyes. “I know,” she said again, more firmly this time, and I understood. This was something she tolerated. But then her mouth quivered, just slightly. She looked back into the mirror. She tolerated it, but she wished she didn’t have to. The conversation was over.

I hated her as much as I hated him. I hated him for his infidelity, her for accepting it. I hated them both for the lies. Their marriage, like everything else, was a sham. I couldn’t stomach it for another second. I wanted no part of their fake fucking lives. When I asked to move out, to stay with my grandmother at the end of the summer instead of flying home, they shrugged,sure. It was like salt in an open wound. Even though I was the one who wanted to leave, it stung that it bothered them so little, that they said yes without a second thought. They rarely called that year. On Thanksgiving, Christmas, my birthday, but otherwise, silence.

After they dropped me off at college, I didn’t hear from them until my mother called to tell me my grandmother had died. I think it might have been one of the reasons I fell in love with Jay. I’d been living in aloveless desert; his desire felt real after a lifetime of insincerity. What a fool I’d been. Sure, his desire had been real, but almost nothing else was.

Then, four months after the funeral, when I was home for spring break, they asked me to join them in my dad’s office. They had a lawyer on the phone. Through the tiny speaker, he informed me that my grandmother had left an eight-figure trust in my name; I’d receive it when I turned twenty-five. You could see the anger on my parents’ faces, the resentment in the way their jaws twitched. The only thing I cared about, though—the Block Island house—was in my mother’s name.

By the time I found this out, they’d already sold it, the money used to upgrade their country club membership. I was livid. They knew how much the house meant to me. It was punishment for my grandmother’s love. That was the last straw, the final nail. I told them I hated them, screamed it again and again until I was hoarse, slamming the door on the way out so hard I thought it might crack in two.

But they were the only family I had left. So when my father called me after three years of no contact, my anger wavered. He’d found out I was applying to law school and offered to write a letter of recommendation from his firm, where I’d interned all throughout high school. I accepted.

We spoke sporadically after that, brief texts or calls, then more frequently, resuming holidays together as a family. I agreed to an externship with his firm as a 3L, then a full-time position when I graduated. Their efforts increased in the months leading up to my twenty-fifth birthday, my dad including me on high-profile cases, invitations from my mother to dinner. He offered to make me partner; she asked me to be on the board of a foundation she belonged to.

It wasn’t hard to see what they were doing. I was interesting tothem now that the money was in sight. But I played along because they were finally offering me what I’d always wanted: their attention, their love. It might have come with strings, but it was something.

I thought, maybe—stupidly—our time together was a start, an opportunity for a real relationship. So I let them in, basked in the closeness. Then, after Harper was born, when I brought up moving to New York, Jay’s business opportunity, the illusion fractured, splintered into itty-bitty pieces. Jay and I had been married for five years by then, college sweethearts, like I’d told Sloane, but they’d never warmed to him. They begged me not to go, tried everything to change my mind, heartfelt cajoling at first, then bitter, empty threats.

I saw their desperation for what it was. They were worried their well would dry up, that Jay would take what they felt was theirs. Notme, but my money. I was gutted.

When we moved, I changed my number, deleted my social media. I didn’t give them our new address. There’s been no communication since.

But this is more than Sloane needs to know, of course.

I smile shyly at her. “The truth is, over the last few months, you’ve become like my family.” I look away, then back at her. Then I add, “It feels like youaremy family.” It’s a line I’ve been waiting to use for weeks now, for just the right moment.

Sloane stares back at me, her eyes wide. “I feel the same way,” she says hoarsely.

I thought she might. So I put down another card. “This might sound crazy,” I say, leaning forward, “but have you ever thought we might be?”

“Related?” Sloane leans in, too. She sounds almost breathless.

I nod. “Sisters, I mean. I don’t know, it’s just that the only thingyou know about your dad is that he’s from Philly. And my dad is from Philly. And we look so similar, now that our hair is the same.” Then I give a little laugh, shake my head. “I mean, it’s probably one in a million, but I guess that’s why you taking guardianship makes sense to me.” I lick my lips. “But if you feel like it’s too much of a responsibility, I completely understand.”

Sloane looks at me, her eyes bright. I know I’ve said the right thing, about us being sisters. Another brick in the house of lies I’m building; I don’t think my dad’s ever set foot in Philly, let alone Daytona, where she was conceived. Then Sloane nods. “Of course I will.”

“Are you sure?”

“Completely,” she says.

I reach across the couch and put my hand on top of hers. “Thank you,” I say. “Really, thank you.”

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