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

She referred to Khloe’s room as “the proper suite” and my smaller room as “your little retreat,” as if demotion improved with softer vowels.

She corrected the florist, the chef, the caterer, the valet company, the event planner, and one unfortunate local magazine editor who had the misfortune to ask whether Vanessa’s commitment to civic work had always been inspired by family. “Goodness, yes,” she said, touching my father’s wrist. “Daniel and I share values.”

I was standing three feet away when she said it.