Since opening Bliss, I’ve booked eleven brides. I’ve also made the decision to sell a few of the sample dresses. I never had a storefront before¸ and now it seems silly to have eight dresses in the shop that aren’t for sale. As Andreas so wisely pointed out—between writing chapters of his lurid urban fantasy/gay erotica—the impulse buy ain’t gonna hurt.

And so I’ve designed a few more dresses, and the two of us have been sewing till our eyes bleed, more or less. We spend many happy hours discussing whether our celebrity crushes are gay or straight and how they’d be in bed. He tells me about his novel, his boyfriend and how he wishes he knew a straight man or two for me.

The extra work helps keep my mind off Rachel, too. It’s been tooth-grinding, not being able to help her out of her misery. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve plotted my brother-in-law’s death. Then I’m filled with guilt and remorse, because until very recently, I loved Adam. He made my sister so happy.

Now she’s dodging my calls.

“What’s wrong with Rachel?” Mom asks one day when I can’t find a reason for her not to come to the store. She wanders around, idly fingering material, clucking disapprovingly here and there. Andreas, who confuses her—A man? In bridal wear? But why?—has brought her a cup of coffee and leans against the counter, drinking it all in for his novel. He’s basing a character on her.

“I don’t know,” I lie. “She seems fine to me. We had so much fun with the girls the other day.” In fact, I was babysitting; Rachel barely said a word to me, so distracted and pale. “They came to my apartment, and I made them a pillow fort, and Rose—”

“Do you think Grace is autistic?”

This is my mother. Able to suck joy from the conversation in under one second.

“No,” I say firmly.

“Well, something’s going on with your sister. God knows what she has to complain about. She has a perfect life. She shouldn’t take anything for granted. I had a perfect life, too, once, and then it was gone in an instant. I told her to get over her little snit, whatever it is, and be grateful.”

I take a cleansing breath at that. Andreas practically skips into the workroom to his laptop, inspired.

“Maybe you just don’t remember what it was really like, Mom,” I say mildly, though my stomach burns. “Maybe it wasn’t quite so perfect, and you’ve just—”

“Oh, please. Your father and I were madly in love. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other.”

First of all, yuck. What kid wants to hear about their parents’ sex life, even—or especially—as an adult? Secondly, because I just can’t stand this kind of revisionist history, I say, “Yeah, but remember that last year? You were working so much, and Dad—”

“Are you jealous? Is that it, honey? Because of Owen and Ana-Sofia and how happy they are?”

Better to have her focused on me than on Rachel. It still cuts, though, my mom’s constant need to win, to have had a better life, a better marriage, a bigger, truer love than her daughters. I honestly think Rachel’s having triplets made Mom feel outdone. After all, Rachel has a third more daughters than Mom managed. Add to that my sister’s glowing happiness, and that sweet, innocent sense that emanates—emanated—from her, and Mom always has to slip in a zinger. Her ease of getting pregnant. Two children being the perfect number, according to “studies I’ve read.” Such studies could never be found, but she still claimed that that’s what the experts said.

And of course, Saint Dad, perfect father, better husband.

Then, as always, irritating pity trickles in, mixing with the anger I feel. She loved my father. She’ll never get over his death. “Come on, Mom,” I tell her. “Let me take you to lunch. They redid Hudson’s, and it’s really cute now.”

“You should eat at the new place in my town,” she says. “Really top-notch. The best French food in the Northeast, the Times said.”

“Yeah? What’s it called?”

“Oh, I can’t remember.” She waves her hand dismissively. This is because if she did remember, I could Google the restaurant and thus disprove her claim on the Times review. “Betty and I had lunch there. The chef came out to greet us and made us a special appetizer. It really was amazing. Completely unique.”

“I get it, Mom. Whatever Hudson’s has won’t be as good as what’s in Hedgefield. Would you like to go out with me, anyway? My treat?”

“Fine,” she says, adopting a wounded look. “I just thought you’d be interested in a nice place. No need to get so touchy.”

Two hours later, Mom kisses my cheek goodbye. I text Rachel to warn her that our mother may well stop by, and Rach gives the preemptive phone call, pretending to check in from a doctor’s appointment. Mom warns her about vaccines, both pro and con, essentially saying that the girls are doomed whatever choice Rachel makes.

I wonder if Mom would be happier in some odd way, knowing that Dad wasn’t perfect. If she might have moved on. Mourned less somehow.

It wouldn’t be fair to tell her now. I’m almost positive. In her odd way, she’s happy in her misery.

But I wonder if I should tell Rachel. Then again, maybe it would devastate her, knowing our dad had strayed. Or maybe it would reassure her to know that Dad did love Mom, tremendously, and an affair doesn’t necessarily mean the end of happiness.