The distance had become something Victoria could feel in the room.

Elena noticed it in the way her mother stopped mid-sentence sometimes and simply looked at her, as if waiting for a version of her daughter that no longer stepped forward. It showed in the pauses after ordinary questions, in the way Victoria’s eyes lingered on the careful high neck of Elena’s sweater, in the quiet that stretched too long after Elena gave another smooth, practiced answer.

Sunday evening the three of them sat in the living room after dinner. A documentary played at low volume, more for cover than for content. Victoria occupied her usual corner of the couch....