At Sunday dinner, Dad told 23 relatives: “She’s wo…

wait,” my father started.

“No,” I said firmly. “I’m here with my real family. Please leave.”

“We are your real family,” Sarah protested.

I looked at her, really looked at her. She had lost weight. Her eyes had dark circles. She looked stressed and unhappy despite her fairy-tale life with Marcus.

“You’re people I’m related to by blood,” I said. “But you’re continue reading …