Dad would man the grill, a gleaming stainless-steel beast he’d spent a fortune on, while the sisters filled the kitchen with laughter and steam. Rachel always brought her signature mac and cheese, the kind with the breadcrumb topping that everyone fought over.

I look back now, searching for the cracks I missed. I remember a Sunday, maybe six months before the end, when my cousin Tommy—Rachel’s sixteen-year-old son—made a crack about his mom constantly texting. Rachel had snapped at him, her face flushing a peculiar shade of crimson, claiming it was “work.” Dad had knocked over his wine glass a second later. I thought it was clumsiness. I was an idiot.