My father was wearing my robe when he ordered me to move out of my own bedroom.
He stood in the middle of the master suite with the relaxed confidence of a man who believed that if he occupied something long enough, it became his. My silk robe hung loosely on his broad frame, open at the chest. In one hand he held my crystal glass of scotch, and with the other he dragged his fingers across my duvet as if he were inspecting a hotel room.
My mother didn’t even bother to look up.
