Isla looks down at the box in her hand, at the wineglass, tries to gauge the mess she would make if she dropped them. She starts to cry just like that, with her hands full and unable to wipe her face, cries about her father, or about her mother, or about herself in a pointless, waning present. She cries—perhaps—because her father once told her she was spiteful and parents, she has always felt, should have to like their children more than that.
