My sister kissed my husband in front of thirty people at her own anniversary party and called it a joke. Her husband had a wrapped present in his hands and an envelope she had never opened.

And then I did it about eleven more times in the following nine years, in smaller ways, every time she went at somebody’s husband at a party and somebody’s wife went quiet.

That’s just Romy. She doesn’t mean it.

I said that to Kirsten Vale. I said it to my cousin Enfys. I said it, twice, to Tobin Cade — once at their engagement do, with a drink in my hand, in a perfectly friendly voice.

I told the man she married, before she married him, that she did not mean it.

Our parents.

My father has not spoken to Romy since the seventh of June, 2025, which is nearly eighteen months.

My mother speaks to her every week and always has.

And what my mother said to me, in the July of 2025, in her own kitchen, is the thing that ended a particular idea I had about my own childhood.

She said: “I know exactly what she is, love. I’ve known since she was fifteen. What did you want me to do — have one daughter?”