The Belsons are coming to our house for a barbecue, and I’m making a pie with Peggy, our stepmother since last year. Outside the kitchen window Bradley pushes my stepsisters, Sheila and Meg, on the tire swing. Peggy keeps looking out there like she’s nervous. Dad’s beside her, chopping onions for burgers.

“He’s pushing them awfully hard,” Peggy says.

Dad looks out and so do I. Sheila and Meg are six and seven years old, Peggy’s daughters from her first marriage. Dad smiles. “Brad’s good with kids,” he says, kneading the chopped meat.

“That’s not what I said.”

Dad is quiet. I stare at my blob of crust. “What do you want me to do?” he says.

Peggy laughs. “Nothing, I guess.” She dumps her flour and sugar mix over a pile of apple slices. “If I have to tell you, then nothing.”