Together, they formed something undeniable.
One afternoon that summer, my mother left her phone on the kitchen counter while she stepped outside. A message thread with my aunt was open. I should not have looked. I knew that. But I did.
“I feel bad for Avery,” my mother had written. “But Mark’s right. Sadie has more presence. We have to be practical.”
Practical.
The same word my father had used.
