My aunt Priscilla — my father's sister, a woman who has always been kind to me — stood up to give a toast. She talked about my father. She talked about me. She said, at one point, "Your father loved you so much. He used to tell me you were the easiest child he ever raised. He said you were the light of the family." That was the sentence that did it. I saw Harper's face change. I saw her pick up her glass. I saw her stand up, before my aunt had sat down, and I watched her deliver a "toast" that lasted two minutes and thirty-seven seconds and that I will remember until the day I die. She said she wanted to be honest. She said the family had been pretending for thirty years that something was true that wasn't. She said — looking directly at me, with a soft, drunken, public smile — "I love you, but let's be honest. You were never really one of us. You were the start-over kid. You were the replacement Dad made because he couldn't handle being a real father to me and my mom. And everyone at this table has been pretending that's not true for three decades, and I think at your thirtieth birthday we can finally stop pretending." My aunt Priscilla, God bless her, threw a glass of water in Harper's face.