Rachel was Mommy’s girl; they both loved the domestic arts of decorating and baking and gardening. Me, I liked to think of myself as more like Dad. I’d sit next to him in his big chair, his strong arm around me, and breathe in his comforting dad smell—Dial soap, freshly cut grass and Crest toothpaste, the original mint flavor.

So you see, life was both normal and remarkable, banal and utterly happy, and more than anything, safe. Our parents loved us and each other, my sister was my best friend and we had plenty of everything a child never knows she needs until it’s gone.

Then, two things happened. Dad’s practice was thriving to the point where he hired another dentist. Dr. Dan Wallace, my first crush. He looked like Johnny Castle from Dirty Dancing, and what girl didn’t love Johnny? Dr. Dan was just out of dental school, funny and wore an engraved silver ring on his right hand. I had never met a man who wore a ring that was purely ornamental, and it made Dr. Dan seem unbearably hip.

I wasn’t the only one who thought so; Rachel couldn’t go into the office without being struck dumb and blushing the entire time, and God help her if Dr. Dan spoke to her. Mom would invite him over for dinner, and it was an agony of pleasure and mortification, having him see us in our natural habitat, me trying to seem more interesting and exotic than I actually was, Rachel almost paralyzed with shyness, our father chuckling at both of us, Mom rolling her eyes but making sure she served an extra-complicated and delicious dessert.

I did manage to talk to Dr. Dan about school and playing the clarinet, as he had when he was my age. Finally, at the advanced age of eleven, I had found a man I could picture marrying; move over, Bono, and hello, Dr. Dan. At night, I’d picture our life—I’d be a full-fledged adult at twenty-one, a mere ten years from now, and we’d do a lot of hugging and hand-holding, a few chaste kisses on the lips—sex to an eleven-year-old was still incredibly disgusting. We’d host glamorous parties and go sailing and take trips to Paris to see the Eiffel Tower.

It was right around that time that Dad seemed to change a little. One Saturday afternoon, he and I went to the pharmacy so I could buy maxi pads for Rachel, who was unable to face the humiliation of buying them herself—or even being in the store when they were purchased. I got the brand she requested—two giant packages to stockpile—and went through the aisles looking for my dad.

There he was in the skin care section, studying a jar of moisturizer.

“Dad. That’s for women,” I said patiently.

He flushed and put the box back. “Right, right,” he said. “My skin’s been a little dry, that’s all. You all set?” He headed up to the register.

I looked at the box he’d put back. Age-Defying Overnight Serum.

And when we got in the car, Dad told me he’d forgotten to get razors, ran back into the store and came back out with a bag that clearly contained more than razors. I didn’t say anything, but later on, I checked in my parents’ medicine cabinet. The serum wasn’t there. I found it under the sink, hidden behind a package of toilet paper. Not only that, he had hair dye. Hair dye! For men! How embarrassing! Why would Dad care about defying age? He was old. He knew that.

Then Lena the hygienist had a baby and went out on maternity leave, and Dad hired someone to take her place.

I barely noticed Dorothy, too busy being sophisticated around Dr. Dan when I went to the office. But her name began cropping up at the dinner table, and my antennae twitched, because something else was happening, too—my mother was irritated.

Dorothy hadn’t been able to find a steady job as a hygienist, Dad said. “What does that tell you?” Mom said, uncharacteristically judgmental. Dorothy was widowed and struggled financially. “Is she already nosing around for a raise?” When Dad suggested that they fix Dorothy up with my uncle Greg, Mom said, “Rob. Be serious. Greg’s not going to date a dental hygienist.” Even at age eleven, I recognized the put-down in my mother’s voice. She did tend to worship her little brother, who went on to marry an unemployed stripper, for the record.

Talk of Dorothy continued, almost as if Dad couldn’t resist mentioning her. I didn’t know why. She sounded pathetic to me. Dorothy had a daughter a few years younger than I was. The two of them lived in the grittier town of Brooks Mill, in an apartment. No one I knew lived in an apartment—just in houses.

“I thought we could give her some of the girls’ clothes. Stuff that they’ve outgrown,” Dad suggested. I looked up sharply, not sure if I wanted to part with anything, especially to an unknown stranger.

“How old is she again?” Rachel asked.

“She’s six,” Dad answered. “First grade.” The fact that he knew that made me jealous. Dad had two daughters. He shouldn’t care what grade someone else’s daughter was in.

“She can have my yellow dress with the daisies on it,” Rachel said. “That was a pretty one. Remember, Mom? I wore it to Science Night when I had Mrs. Norton. And those overalls with the pretty pockets. Oh, and that red velvet dress! I loved that dress!”

Thus shamed by Rachel’s kindness—as was often the case—I went up to the attic and dug out some of my clothes for this poor and mysterious child and added a few stuffed animals and books, too.

Summer turned to fall, that season of golden leaves and gray skies. I played soccer; Rachel was in high school and getting pretty good at horseback riding, showing on the weekends, bringing home ribbons. Mom had been promoted to a full-time position as activities director at the nursing home, and she got home just before dinner, stressed and moving at a hundred miles an hour, trying to throw dinner together and arrange a car pool for Rachel and make cookies to show that she was still that kind of mom.