Everyone burst out laughing when my three-year-old pointed at my stepmother’s stomach and announced that her daddy was inside. I laughed with them—until she started sobbing, pulled me closer, and forced me to look. Then I noticed the tiny mark beside Clara’s swimsuit, and my husband went as pale as poolside chalk.

By noon, damp footprints covered my kitchen floor, and a single pink sandal floated in the deep end.

Ariel stood beside the pool in purple goggles and a paper crown already limp around the edges.

She had refused to remove it before swimming because, in her opinion, queens never took off their crowns for water.

Glen grilled hot dogs beneath the maple tree. Every few minutes, he lifted the lid and glared at the smoke as though the grill had betrayed him personally.

I was carrying watermelon toward the patio when my stepmother, Clara, arrived.