I stayed the weekend. I helped Wren clean the kitchen and make soup for our mother. I sat with my mother while she ate, slowly, a few bites at a time. I called my father in the city and told him I was at the house and we needed to talk.
He came down on Sunday evening.
It was the first time I had seen him since I'd walked out four years ago. He looked the same, in the way that men like him always look the same—grayer, a little heavier, but untouched. He came into the living room and shook my hand as if I were a colleague, and I did not flinch.
"Marina," he said. "It's good to see you."
"Is it?"
He looked at my mother, who was seated in an armchair, wrapped in a robe. He looked at Wren, who was standing by the window with her arms crossed. He looked at me.
"So this is a family meeting,
