“Sit next to Daddy. There is more room.”

Mom says it like it is nothing. I sit. The Sunday table is packed. Roast. Potatoes. His sons. Two cousins. A neighbor who would not leave. My dress is too short for this chair and he knows it. His thigh touches mine the second I sit down.

Then his hand.

It lands on my leg like a proud stepfather. Warm. Heavy. Everyone can see it. Mom smiles.

“He is so affectionate with her,” she tells the neighbor. “I love that they get along.”

His fingers squeeze once. Under the tablecloth they slide an inch higher.

I pick up my fork because I...