“Maybe if you’d been, like, capable of feeling anything when you were married to Dad, you wouldn’t be divorced right now,” she says finally, over the whir of the mixer. My breath catches in my throat and I stare at her. “What are you talking about? I showed emotion.” She turns the mixer off. “Whatever,” she mutters. “Only to, like, send me to my room. When did you ever act like you were happy to be with Dad?”
