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            When we were girls, I remember Becca holding my hand as we crossed the street, licking her fingers to wipe smudges off my cheeks before we got out of the car. Later, the three years between us stretched into miles. I would stand on the porch of our split level house, watching her disappear into cars - laughing, then seeing the headlights return as I searched for her at the end of the night. Once, I sneaked to the front door and peeled back the curtain in time to watch her slap a boy right on the face. He stormed off and I stared, amazed at her power. I learned to dance on the tips of Becca's toes to Bee Gee's records. At bedtime she hid under my covers, until Mom closed her door, so we could stay longer, giggling quietly in the dark at nonsense. My eyes follow her now, belly swollen as she wobbles around our childhood kitchen, nodding and smiling as our mother sets rolls in the oven. The miles between us have turned into years.

            There is nothing left of the basketball all-star or the girl who wanted to be an astronaut. Her long brown hair has been shorn into a mousy bob that she tucks behind her ears, the soft skin under her chin, rounded to match the rest of her. She gave up a long time ago, it seems, falling in step with Mom, a soft ghost of shame fueling her devotion. Ed, her husband, sits next to our father, each in their own reclining chair, feet up, watching other men with balls, oblivious to the magical world where food is conjured behind them. The house is like a time capsule where men still rule as Kings.

            The air is full of fresh-baked bread and stale memory. I am filled with a strong desire to run. I blink, and take in a deep breath, blow it out. It is my first time home in four years. Excuses were piling too precariously. My number was up. An obligatory family weekend was the only way out from under the mountain of guilt. There I sat, wedged between the kitchen and the living room, no country for prodigal children.

            “Rachel, are you seeing someone? What was the last one, Allen?” my mother asks.

            “Oh, Allen. Yeah, he moved to Montana. A year ago.” I say.

            He had watched City Slickers one afternoon. Later that night, when he looked at me, his eyes started to kind of glaze over.

            “We could live in the country like that, have a little farm?” he'd said, staring at the wall.

            I walked out of his apartment and never went back, leaving a voice mail to tell him know it was over. I'm pretty sure he already knew. Before that it was Ryan. He lasted longer than most. His need to please seemed admirable at first, then later, mildly pathetic. I watched him one afternoon clip his toenails and sweep them into a neat pile, like I wasn't even there. That was pretty much it. I'd been on dates, friends always wanting to try me out on someone new. These men, their eyes would seem to roam around the restaurant, or to their phones, as if a better option might walk in, or call, at any moment.   

            “How's work?” Ed says from the other room.

            I take the step down to join them and tell them this year's sales numbers, about my latest promotion. Ed nods but doesn't take his eyes off the game. Dad turns down the volume and sits up straighter to show he's listening. This is what he wants to hear.

            “I knew all that schooling would pay off, ” says Dad nodding, a tight smile tickling one side of his face.

            I glance up at Becca. Her head is in a fruit salad. Mom looks over at her, their backs to me. She wipes her hands on a dishtowel, brushes a stray hair from her face and rubs Becca's shoulder, her head leaning, almost imperceptibly, towards me.

            “That looks wonderful, honey,” she says.

            My mother is all light, the kind that's meant to bend and dazzle, to blind. She seems always to be in a contest no one's heard about. I look down at my father, who smiles up at me. I see pride and love in his eyes, but also something more - a question, a challenge. I feel an old, empty, smug feeling wash over me. I rest my hand on top of his chair and look back at the game. My father remains rigid below me, his hand on the remote. 

            “How long are you in town?” Ed wonders, and the moment passes, as it always does.

            My eyes start to fill and I drift towards a bathroom, to quieter walls. As I walk upstairs, voices from the kitchen follow me. Along the hall, the way to our old rooms, yellowed memories press in at me from both sides. Mom and me together on Santa's lap. I'm holding a book under my arm. I must have been seven or eight. Us again in the garden, picking tomatoes. Dad and Becca on the roller coaster, their arms thrown wild in the air. Them at the basketball game, her arm hanging loose over the ball. Mom and Dad, side by side, smiling at the camera. That's how it was before that day. Me and Becca laughing 'til we couldn't breathe, rolling on the trampoline, looking up at the sky like we owned the whole thing. Then it all changed. We drew invisible lines, separating who we were, from who we would be, and stepped over them. Becca joined ranks with our mother, morphing herself into a faithful shadow, complete with matching aprons. We locked our secrets up tight, our partners in the dance, chosen. My sister shed her dreams, like worn out skins. I went off to college, Daddy footing the bill. Whatever I wanted, he'd said. Becca married Ed right out of high school and never left this town.

  

            Becca and I had early release that day, teacher conferences. Mom was at the bake sale for the library, so we walked down the street to get an ice cream. Randy, from the Big Scoop, snuck us cones when the manager wasn't looking. He had a thing for Becca. It was hot that day. We walked over to Dad's work to see if we could get a ride. The bell jangled as we opened the door, but no one was inside. The air-conditioning felt cold on our bare arms and legs. This was Dad's company, for plumbing supplies. It was always musty in there, smelling like boredom and hard candies. The only customers that came in were the occasional contractor looking for Dad. Mostly people called for stuff. It was a one man show, Dad liked to say.

            “I'll go look for him. He's probably in the warehouse.” I told Becca.

I walked around the building, calling out for him. He didn't answer, so I went back inside.

            When I came back in, Becca was frozen, staring at Dad's closed, office door. Through the blinds I could see them, Mrs. Lawson's skirt up around her waist and Dad straining to hold her tight and push against her at the same time. I held my breath and didn't move. The blood drained from my face and pricked the back of my knees. I looked back at Becca, both of our eyes wide and questioning. I held my hand up with a hasty, silent shrug, shaking. She just shook her head, a devastated confusion rearranging her face. When we heard murmuring from inside, I grabbed Becca's hand and we hustled to the closet, just as they stepped out of the office, tugging at their clothes.

            We watched through a crack in the door as our father kissed this woman, not our mother, right on the lips and walked with her out of the shop. Becca covered her mouth, silent. I felt a creeping rage grab at my throat. The world fell out from under us. After a few minutes, we heard Dad's car pull away, so we nudged the door open. We walked on tiptoes to the office and stood inside like statues, looking sideways at the room. It felt dirty. Heavy. We were like investigators at a crime scene, but we were the accomplices. Pictures of us, of Mom, stared, accusing from atop the file cabinet. Under Dad's desk was Mrs. Lawson's scarf. I'd seen her wear it, like Grace Kelly on a Sunday drive. I picked it up and held it to my nose. It smelled of light vanilla powder. I stuffed it under my shirt.

            We walked home slow, our feet dragging behind us. The air hung thick and humid.

            “Do you think Mom knows?” I said.

            “I don't know.” said Becca.

             “What are we going to do? Are we supposed to tell her?”

            “No, we can't. She would die,” says Becca.

            “Why?” I say. “They're married! Mom needs to know who she's married to. He's a cheater. It's   gross. He can't do this to us.”

            “I know. But, he didn't do it to us. He's just...it's none of our business.” said Becca, who was all-of-the-sudden a million years old.

            “None of our business! He's our Father. She's our Mother. Did you see that woman's...legs? Doesn't Mrs. Lawson have her own husband. She has like two kids. I watched their cat.”

            We had both fallen silent then, hesitating outside our own house, until our Mom pulled up. As she opened the car door, Becca left my side, rushing to help her carry bags from the car. I went to my room to be alone. Mom let me. Dad came home that night at the normal time. Becca and I looked at each other, both seeing a mirror of surprise, relief, conspiracy. For them, it was just like any other day. At dinner, she laid his plate of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, cut carrots in front of him. He sort of grunted at her, a satisfied kind of sound and I thought - how could she be this person, this helpless person. I stared at her like someone I had never seen before, kicking the legs of my chair with my heels.

            “How many times are we going to eat chicken like this,” I had said, sullen and accusing. “We're all going to get fat.”

            “You love fried chicken,” my Mother had said.  

            Becca talked all through dinner, asking Mom how her day was and what she was doing tomorrow, telling her the food was good and that her hair looked nice, sucking up. After that day, for Becca, Dad just wasn't there anymore. She was Mom's now. I watched them after that, detached. They were like exhibits at a zoo that I could only see through glass, a pair of pets, playing house.

            That night, as Dad sat down in front of the television, I watched him from the hall, his strong arms - the way he held himself, stiff and ready, and like the world owed him a favor. I walked up to his chair, held up my arm and let the scarf float into his lap. I forced my back to stay straight, to look him in the eye, to not flinch. Everything changed then, in a moment, as it does. Dad looked at me.

He really, looked at me.