My stepmother called at 11:47 p.m. on the first night in the beach house I bought with my own money and told me she and my father were moving in the next day, that they were taking the master suite, that her daughter would get the best ocean-view room

The day I signed for the La Jolla house, I thought of her first.

The second morning, just after seven, my stepmother arrived.

I saw the SUVs first through the long front windows: black, polished, hired, not the kind of vehicle people use for a weekend visit. Then the driver unloading garment bags, hard-shell luggage in cream and gold, vanity cases, a small rolling appliance I later realized was Khloe’s skincare fridge, two hat boxes, and one giant bouquet of white orchids Vanessa had apparently sent herself to make the entry feel ceremonial.

I was standing in the foyer in linen pants and a black sweater when she came through the door without knocking.

“Bianca,” she said warmly, as though the previous night’s conversation had been a charming logistical exchange between loving women. “It’s even more beautiful in person.”

She kissed the air beside my cheek.