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her quizzically. “I’m kidding, kiddo. It doesn’t make it okay, but I guess there are worse things in the world.”
    The doorbell rang. She went back downstairs to answer it. On the front steps she found Seth, come unannounced, for a quick talk, as he put it. Seth was Meghan’s husband, “my soon-to-be ex-husband,” as she had taken to describing him to friends. Meghan let him in and led him through to the kitchen. “Come have a cup of whatever,” she said.
    “You’re being very civil,” said Seth. He was carrying a shopping bag, the paper kind with handles, from a sporting goods store.
    “I have to be,” she replied. “Betsy’s upstairs, and likely to come bounding down any minute. I’ve gone to great pains to paint this whole business as amicable, to convince her she’s got two parents who love and care for her, and even, on some level, still care for each other. You’d better be doing the same when she’s with you.”
    “Yeah, sure. Maybe if we say it enough, it’ll even come true.”
    “Maybe. That would be good. Living a fiction is exhausting. But then you’re more practiced.”
    Seth made a face, exactly the kind of face she hated him making, the kind that said, that’s a low blow designed to hurt my feelings, and I think less of you for it. She wanted to shout fuck you at him, but of course, as she’d already pointed out, Betsy was likely to come bounding down the stairs any moment. Betsy, in fact, chose this moment to yell from the top of the stairs.
    “Mom! Who is it?”
    “Your father.”
    Silence.
    “Hi babe,” yelled Seth, with an enthusiasm so achingly fake any ten-year-old would see through it. They could hear Betsy come down the stairs, her footfalls heavy and slow.
    When she came in the kitchen she said, “What are you doing here?”
    “I just came by to talk to your mom.”
    Without sitting down, she flipped through a magazine on the kitchen table. “So talk.”
    “Well darling, it’s kind of like, very adult talk.”
    “About the divorce and stuff?”
    “Not exactly.”
    “I can handle it, Dad.”
    “It’s just, I’d rather—look, I brought you a new soccer ball.” He pulled it from the shopping bag. “The official Olympic ball.”
    Betsy glanced at it and went back to pretending an interest in the magazine.
    “You like soccer, Bets, don’t you?”
    “I play soccer. You’re the one that likes it.”
    “Listen, Betsy, why don’t you take the ball out in the back yard and—”
    “Ha. Have you seen our back yard? It’s not even big enough for anything.”
    “Big enough to dribble a ball. See how long you can keep it in the air.”
    “I don’t want to.”
    Seth’s voice turned suddenly unfriendly. “Betsy. Go outside. Five minutes, I have to talk to your mother.”
    Betsy looked from him to Meghan, who hesitated before taking sides.
    “It might be better, sweetie.”
    “I don’t care. I’m not going.”
    “Betsy, give us five goddamned minutes!” Seth blurted out.
    Betsy burst into tears. She strode past her father to the back door, threw it open, stepped out onto the deck, turned back and yelled at him. “Why can’t I hear?”
    “She’ll tell you about it soon enough,” said Seth. “It’ll be smoother this way.”
    “I don’t care about smoother!”
    He brought the ball to her, resting it like the world in his palm, but she swatted it away. It rolled back inside into the tangle of chair legs under the kitchen table.
    “Did it ever dawn on you that Mommy might like it better if she and I can talk alone for a minute? Think of mommy for a change.”
    “You think of mommy! You never think of mommy. You don’t even love her!”
    “Five minutes,” Seth insisted. He took the door handle and started to close it against her.
    “It’s my house, mine and mommy’s, and you’re pushing me out! It’s not your house, it’s mine!”
    “Yes. It’s yours,” Seth said sternly. “In five minutes it’ll be yours again. Outside.