My father stood beside her, holding a glass of sherry, his eyes fixed on the floor.

I reached for the heavy brass handle.

My fingers were cold against the metal.

I pushed the door open.

The hinges gave a soft, oiled click.

The room smelled of beeswax, damp wool, and my mother’s expensive French perfume.

My father did not look up immediately.

He kept his eyes on the amber liquid in his glass.

My mother did.

She set her crystal glass down on the mantelpiece with a sharp, echoing tap.

“Close the door, Sarah,” she said.

Her voice was low, carrying that clipped, eastern-prep cadence she had never lost.

I closed the door behind me.

The latch clicked into place, shutting out the murmur of the reception outside.

“Hello, Mother,” I said. “Dad.”

My father offered a weak, fleeting smile.

His eyes darted to the corner of the room before returning to his glass.

“Sarah,” he muttered.

“Did you think that was clever?” Helen asked.

She took a step toward me, her cream-colored trousers moving without a wrinkle.