All of them sprawled out on the furniture as if they owned the place, demanding coffee, asking for more toast, shouting that the jam was gone. And my daughter, my Laura, was serving them. She was serving as if she were the hired help in her own home.

“Laura, where’s the sugar?” one of the sisters yelled.

“Laura, these eggs are cold. Make me new ones,” Robert’s mother ordered.

My daughter moved back and forth like a ghost, obeying every command, wiping every plate, enduring every contemptuous comment. And I, standing in the doorway, felt rage begin to rise from the deepest part of my stomach. This was not what I had planned. This was not why I bought this property.