Chapter 9: The Last Draw

On Sunday morning the silver bowl was waiting on the breakfast table.

Philip had put it there himself, next to the toast, with the sealed envelopes heaped inside.

Whitney sat across from it in a silk robe, her phone propped against the sugar bowl.

The red light was on.

I had not slept. *Adopting.* I had never signed to adopt anyone, and Philip's friend had said it across the poker table like old news.

Philip watched my face over his cup, and I gave him nothing.

"One more draw before the big day," Philip said. "It's tradition."

He did not mention that he had cancelled the draw on Thursday.

He wanted it filmed, and he wanted it today.

I looked at the envelopes, then at my daughter.

Maisie sat at the end of the table in her school clothes, pushing cereal around with a spoon.

She was watching my hands.

She had been watching them every Sunday for six years.

"No," I said.

The room went silent.

Whitney's phone stayed steady, but her eyes jumped to her stepfather.

"I'm sorry?" Philip said.

"I'm not drawing."

"Rosalind."

"I'll draw at the party," I said. "In front of everyone. All two hundred. I'd like them to see the bowl."

For one long second nobody moved.

Then Whitney began to laugh.

"Oh my God, yes," she said. "Do it live. Dad, we can put it on the screen, it'll be hilarious."

Philip studied me.

He was looking for the trick.

He could not find one, because I had only told him the truth.

"Fine," he said slowly. "At the toast."

"At the toast."

"And you'll wear the blue dress."

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