Chapter 1

My parents were married for thirty-six years, and for thirty-five of those, they slept in separate rooms.

I always thought that was what marriage was supposed to be like, two people living side by side, distant and uninvolved.

That illusion shattered when my father, in the final stage of lung cancer, brought the woman he had loved all his life straight into our home.

My mother stood in the kitchen, chopping ribs. The sound of the cleaver was sharp and relentless. She did not even look up, and not a single word of protest left her lips.

On the day of my father's funeral, the lawyer read the will in front of everyone. Eighty percent of the company's controlling shares were to be transferred to his first love, Shiloh.

All the relatives waited for my mother to break down, to scream and make a scene. Instead, she simply nodded. "I understand."

Three days later, Shiloh walked into the boardroom in ten centimeter heels as the new controlling shareholder, smiling with quiet triumph.

Just as she lowered her pen to finalize the takeover, the lawyer suddenly stood up. "Ladies and gentlemen, there is another will. Today is the first day it may be disclosed."

The triumph on Shiloh's face froze instantly, and in the next second, her complexion turned as pale as paper.

*****

The day Declan brought that woman home was a Wednesday in October.

When I got back from work and pushed open the door, there was someone new sitting on the living room sofa.

She looked to be in her early fifties, wearing a buttery yellow cashmere cardigan and a bracelet.

Her nails were immaculately manicured. She sat with perfect posture, cradling a teacup, her pinky delicately lifted.

Dad was sitting beside her, an oxygen tube in his nose, his face sallow and yellowish. But he was smiling.

In all my thirty-two years, I'd never seen him smile like that.

His whole face was relaxed, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes smoothing out, and there was a kind of careful solemnity to it.

Dad said, "Celeste, this is Shiloh, an old friend from high school. She's been alone lately, so she'll be staying with us for a bit."

Before I could respond, Shiloh rose gracefully and extended her hand toward me.

"You must be Celeste, right? Your dad's always talking about you," she said.

Her hand was pale and cold.

I shook it politely, slipped off my shoes and into slippers, then went straight to the kitchen.

Mom was in the kitchen, chopping up ribs.

The knife hit the cutting board over and over, the steady rhythm almost unnervingly calm.

"Mom, the one in the living room—" I started.

"I know," she said, not turning around. "Your dad already told me. She can stay if she wants."

Mom said it in that same indifferent tone. Same tone she'd used for thirty-five years.

My parents had been married for thirty-six years, but they'd slept in separate rooms for thirty-five of them.

The only year they shared a bedroom was because there was only one room in the house.

The night we moved into the new place, Dad rolled his bedding into the study, saying he needed to work on some documents and didn't want to be disturbed.

And he kept at it for thirty-five years.

As far back as I could remember, they never sat next to each other, never went out together, and never even argued.

At least arguing would've been some kind of communication. All they had between them were rules.

Whose cup went in which spot, who got the bathroom first, who paid the utilities, who covered the property fees. Everything was crystal clear, with boundaries drawn sharp as knives.

When I was ten, I asked my mom, "Why don't you and Dad sleep in the same room?"

Mom zipped up my backpack and said, "That's grown-up stuff. Don't ask."

When I was twenty-five, I asked Dad the same question.

Dad was in the study, smoking, and stared at me for what felt like forever before finally saying, "Your mom's cold as ice. Living with her is hell."

That was the one and only time he ever said anything about her.

On the third day after Shiloh moved in, the living room curtains got swapped out.

"Declan, these curtains are way too dark. I ordered some lighter ones. They'll make the place feel so much brighter," she said.

Dad nodded. "Go ahead, it's up to you."

By the fifth day, the sofa cushions were swapped out.

On the seventh day, the white porcelain plates my mom had used for fifteen years were packed away in a cardboard box and moved to the storage room.

I went to find my mom. She was in her room, watching TV with the volume turned way down, the remote clutched in her hand.

"Mom, she replaced all your bowls," I said.

"They're just bowls," Mom replied.

That weekend, a few of Dad's old friends came over. Shiloh was bustling around in an apron, serving tea and snacks, all smiles and hospitality.

Mom kept her door shut all day, not coming out once.

In the living room, one of the uncles leaned in and whispered, "Declan, isn't your wife coming out to join us?"

Dad waved him off. "She's not into socializing. Just leave her be."

Shiloh chimed in with a smile, "Sis isn't feeling well. Let her get some rest."

She actually called my mom "sis."

That night, I brought a plate of fruit to my mom's room. When I opened the door, the lights were off and the TV was shut down.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her face illuminated by the glow of her phone.

She showed no emotion at all. But all ten of her fingers were gripping the phone case so tightly, her knuckles had turned white.

"Mom," I called out.

"Get out. Close the door," she said.