immaculate backyard. I tried to ignore the familiar knot tightening in my stomach, the one that always formed when I was around Amanda. Eight years, and I still felt like an unwelcome guest in my own son’s life.

“Grandma Lucia, watch this!” Emma called, attempting a cartwheel that ended in a giggling heap on the perfectly manicured lawn. At seven, she still saw me as someone worth impressing. I wondered how much longer that would last under Amanda’s subtle, corrosive influence.