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The night my father told me I could “share” my mother with the two children he had after our divorce, I realized he had been telling lies in my name for years. I was seventeen, old enough to hear the pressure beneath his calm voice, and still young enough to be stunned by it. Upstairs, my nine-year-old half sister, Lucy, was crying because a girl at school had asked why she never brought her mother to anything.
Chapter 2 The next morning I asked Dad what he had told them. He kept packing lunches as though we were discussing the weather. “I...
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