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

My father followed at a slower pace, holding his own overnight bag, his face difficult to read. He looked tired in a way that made me remember all at once that he’d had a heart scare eight months earlier—nothing catastrophic, but serious enough to require a stent and several weeks of frightened compliance with doctors’ orders. Vanessa had handled his paperwork during recovery. At the time I was in Singapore closing a client engagement and came home to find her installed at his dining table with folders spread around her like she had been waiting years for a role involving signatures.

Khloe breezed in last, sunglasses on despite the interior light, white tennis skirt, cashmere sweater draped over her shoulders like a costume interpretation of youth and wealth.

“Oh my God,” she said, drawing out every word as if awe itself had to be accessorized. “This place is literally insane.”

Literally insane, in Khloe’s vocabulary, could mean anything from a manicure to a sunset to a price tag she never intended to pay.