Page 64 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

“Of course you would.” My mother wraps her new shawl around herself, twisting her shoulders to get a selfie. “You eat out far more often than we do, because of your job.”

“Yes, Mother. I eat returned food orders and sneak slices of leftover pizza.”

I rarely use this tone with her. More to the point, these days, I speak to my mother as little as possible. It’s too hard to balance my guilt and anger. Yes, I feel responsible for our situation, but most days, my mother’s not even trying to parent, help or be present in any meaningful way.

I look at the matching pink-and-purple glittery boots that sit in a pile. It’s April and past the rainy season. By the time there’s another storm, the girls will have grown out of these.

“We can eat out another day,” I tell the now-quiet girls. “Grab your boots and”—I look around—“tights and other clothes.”

Nylons, I think and don’t say.

Because why the fuck is my mother buying my four- and five-year-old sisters nylons?

“Wren and Harper have been wanting to take dance lessons,” my mother explains.

“They’ve mentioned it.” We can’t afford lessons. But I don’t want to be labeled the bad guy.

“We don’t need dance lessons,” Aurora, who has quietly inserted herself next to me, announces. My eldest little sister is dressed in her normal clothes—which, given that we’ve been in this new house for two years now, means my castoffs. Aurora’s too young to understand so much about the power struggle between my mother and me. And yet she not only does, she is clearly taking sides.

“Did you not get any new clothes?” I can feel the emotion clogging the back of my throat because it’s obvious the most responsible Zhao has gotten shafted.

Aurora shakes her head, her voice firm. “Don’t need them.”

“Can you help your sisters carry in their clothes?” I keep my voice gentle and then crouch near her. “I’ll make this up to you.”

Aurora nods and looks away, her young face strained.

To my side, Lucas squeezes my hand. “I’ll look at the dishwasher?”

Lucas waits until I meet his eyes, and it’s clear that he’s offering to stay, to act as a buffer. But there’s nothing he can do. “You don’t have to stay.”

“I’d like to.”

I nod and gesture toward the kitchen, as if it isn’t mere feet away, as if Lucas won’t hear every word of the argument my mother and I are about to have.

By tacit agreement, my mother and I remain quiet until Lucas is in the kitchen and the door has closed behind the girls’ room, where Aurora plays a Disney sing-along list loud enough to drown out the impending argument, but too quiet for the neighbors to complain.

It’s what I used to do when our parents fought: shuffle the girls into another room and distract them. The ache in my chest intensifies, blooming outward; this was the last lesson I wanted Aurora to learn.

I take a deep, calming breath and breathe in and out, counting, doubling the numbers, counting primes until I finally feel ready to speak.

“Worlds is months away, and I have no idea how we’ll do or when Father might send more money.” Truthfully, I have no idea whether my always moody, permanently fickle and faithless father will ever send another bonus. The fear that each check, each deposit, will be the last has been a pervasive one. Ever since he unceremoniously kicked us out of our former home, it’s been the constant background drumbeat of my awareness. The older I get, the more cognizant I am that my half sisters might begin vying for his attention, that there is always the possibility of another mistress or girlfriend who finally gives him that yearned-for male heir.

That I’m a trimester or two away from obsolescence.

“You worry too much.”

“Only because you don’t worry enough.”

My mother sets down the purse she’s been reexamining, a tiny shoulder thing that’s useless beyond its name-brand declaration. “I never asked you to play the martyr.”

There are so many ways to respond to that, none of which will move us forward.

“Father intended for that money to be mine.”

“Then he shouldn’t have sent it here.” My mother looks up at me through artificially guileless eyes.

I want to scream.