It’s 1 a.m. Friday night—well, Saturday morning. An almost completely lonely one in the morning. Only Flora is home with me, staying up way past her bedtime. Mine too, for that matter, but I’m determined to wait this out. To find out who, if anyone, has a good excuse for missing the one hard-and-fast tradition of our family, Friday dinner with everyone together. The family tradition that, tonight, the only ones home for were me and our youngest daughter.

Flora and I sit in the living room, me on an easy chair facing the front hall, she on the couch beside me with her legs curled under. We both have books, paper books, and sometimes I’m even reading mine, an early Honor Harrington novel. Flora has gotten up every so often to refresh our pot of tea, but I’ve remained at my self-assigned duty station (except to get up to pee).

Finally, shortly after 1, the front door opens, then closes with a thump and a giggle. Steps in the hallway and someone staggers into view—Lillianna, our oldest daughter. Her hair’s a mess, her clothes torn and askew—I glimpse a nipple with a fresh hickey right above it—and her smile seraphic. Even from several feet away, she stinks of sex and pot smoke. “Hey, Dad,” she says sweetly, clearly still high. “Is dinner ready? I’m totally starving.”

Flora clears her throat, then points her older sister at the clock.

Lillianna groans. “Aw, shit. I’m so late. And it’s Friday, isn’t it? Fuck, I’m in so much trouble, aren’t I. Aw, maaan, I’m sooo sorry.”

She’s clearly remorseful—and clearly knows she has indeed fucked up. And not for the first time, though this is her worst yet. Time to have a talk about her marijuana use. There’s no point ranting now, though, not in her current state—she won’t take it in. “Tomorrow, once you’re sober,” I say in my best stern paternal voice, “we’ll talk about the consequences of not calling to let us know where you were. At sixteen, you know better.”

“Oh. Okay, yeah. I’m so, so sorry, Dad.” She wavers over to my chair, stumbling once, and leans down to kiss me. Her face smells of pussy and her breath of semen. Despite myself, I feel my cock stir. Even if she’s my daughter, a sexually active teen—an enthusiastically sexual teen—is still viscerally attractive. Especially if she’s so stoned she accidentally French-kisses you.

I gently push her upright before she tumbles into my lap. “Now snack up, drink some water, and go to bed.”

“Yeah, okay, got it. Thanks, Dad. Night, Flor’.”

And with that, she stumbles up the stairs. I look at Flora and sigh. Flora in turn chuckles and shakes her head. Two years younger, but ten years more mature than Lillianna. I’m not sure whether to rejoice or weep that she’s not my bio-daughter. Maybe I should just be glad she’s waiting with me tonight.

“That’s one,” she says, and returns to her book—some sort of fantasy, I think. She shifts, and I get a better look at the cover—oh, make that erotic fantasy. Maybe even erotica with a touch of fantasy. Was fourteen old enough to be reading that?

My thoughts are broken by the front door opening and laughter tumbling in. It’s Connor, our middle kid, accompanied by two giggling blondes—his arms are wrapped over their shoulders, his hands inside each of their tops, cupping a tit. The older girl—no, woman she is—stops giggling when she sees me, but the younger one, definitely a girl, barely Flora’s age, does not. The woman’s skirt is askew and the top two buttons of the girl’s jeans are undone. Both are attractive.

“Oh, hi Dad.” Connor keeps his hands on their breasts. And keeps grinning. Just like he does with every other notch on his bed frame.

I look coldly at the party. Flora outright glares. The woman makes an attempt to placate us. “Sorry to barge in like this—I’m Marcy and this is Darcy. My husband threw us out, and Connor offered us a place to sleep for the night.”

Darcy giggles again. “Well, yeah, Mom—he was pissed off because Connor won us.” She puts her hand over my son’s, clearly wanting him to keep fondling her.

I can’t help raising my eyebrows. “Won you?”

Marcy pretends to be embarrassed. “In a bet.” She glances side-eye at Connor and her daughter. “I admit, I was pissed off at Jarrod and encouraged him to make a fool of himself.”

Part of me is curious, but most of me knows it’s a very bad idea to ask for more details. “You missed dinner.”

Connor snorts. “Well, yeah.”

“It’s Friday,” I remind him. “Without leaving word where you’ll be.”

“Oh. Uh, sorry, Dad,” he says unconvincingly. Just like last time he did that. Locking down his phone with parental controls wasn’t consequence enough, apparently.

If he were alone, I’d call him on the carpet—but not in company. Even better would be backup from at least one of his mothers. I growl at him, “We will talk more in the morning, but know this—you are thoroughly grounded. For now, though, see to your guests’ accommodations.” Not that I have any illusion they’ll sleep anywhere but with him. “Goodnight, Marcy, Darcy.”

“Goodnight,” Marcy says as the three walk away. Darcy just moans, lost in Connor’s touch. As they reach the staircase, mother and daughter squeal, as if they’ve been goosed, and the three pelt up the steps.

“This just gets better and better,” Flora says. She sounds amused, rather than mad, even though she doesn’t exactly get along well with her brother. Her laughing voice cuts through my outrage, and I have to laugh myself.

I’ve always liked Flora’s laugh. And her smile. And when did she take off her bra? That she finds Connor’s public fondling as arousing as I do is obvious, given the nips tenting her thin sweater.

“I can hardly wait to find out what’s up with your mothers,” I say, trying to joke. As jokes go, it falls flatter than my usual.

Flora looks at me sympathetically. “Yeah, we’ll see.”

Which in some ways hurts more.

I don’t have to hold that hurt for long—a car pulls up in the driveway. Half a minute later, the front door opens and closes softly, and Justine walks in—my older wife, Flora and Lillianna’s birth-mother. She, like our son’s guests, stops short when she sees us waiting. Like Lillianna, her clothes are askew—even more, actually, as her blouse is completely unbuttoned beneath her open business suit jacket, and her bra missing. Her suit skirt has a wine stain, and there’s a lipstick mark on one lapel. A smudge of lipstick in another color is on her cheek and a blob of white, probably semen, plasters a tuft of pale blonde hair to her forehead.

Well, fuck. Literally.

“Aiden—you’re still up.” She says it like an accusation. “And Flora, it is way past your bedtime.”

“Well, it is Friday, Mama Justine,” Flora says with active venom. “Family togetherness night.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, young lady,” Justine starts, but I interrupt with, “I gave her permission to stay up.”

Which breaks her off that distraction. Our marriage is rocky, but we still don’t undercut each other’s parenting, at least for now. Much good that does, with her this blatant.

“Where have you been and why didn’t you tell us?” I ask, getting straight to the real points.

“I did!” Justine bites out. “Maybe you should fucking read your messages, Aiden.”

I pick up my phone, and scroll to her text stream. Nothing from her since two days ago. I show her without a word.

“What’d you do, fucking delete it?” She gets out her phone and scrolls. I am unable to appreciate how her movements completely uncover her breasts. At least they have no visible hickeys. “See? Sent it at—oh.”

Her voice goes flat. This cannot be good. I manage, “Hmm?”

“Who’d you send it to?” Flora asks.

Justine assesses Flora for a moment. “Don Thanh.”

Now that’s a stab in the chest. Don is Flora’s bio-father, via an affair Justine had fifteen years ago. He’d relinquished all parental rights so we could raise her as our own. Supposedly, Justine wasn’t in contact with him—supposedly hadn’t been since the papers were signed. And yet his text stream is enough used, she mistook it for mine.

Flora hisses in her breath, and suddenly I’m more worried about her than my own marriage. We’ve always been open about her parentage. We would have been anyway, but it’s hard to lie when she’s obviously biracial and her parents are all white. She’s always firmly refused any opportunity to meet him—we’re her only family, as far as she’s concerned.

And from her look, it’s clear Flora understands the implications of her mother messing up a text stream like that. The implications of this guy taking in stride a message about where Justine would be.

“Now that we’ve established that, where were you?” I said, voice almost steady. I was faking calmness as hard as I could.

Justine shrugs. “Some of us went out for drinks after work.”

I give her a skeptical look honed by sixteen years of fatherhood. She obviously did drink at some point, but it was long enough ago she was completely steady and safe to drive. “And?”

Reluctantly but defiantly, she adds, “And then Burt took a couple of us to a party.”

The stab in my chest reaches my heart. Fuck. Burt is her boss, and the parties he goes to are swinger parties. Tara and I have debated the possibility Justine’s having an affair with him, with her supposed late nights at the office becoming more frequent of late.

And then, suddenly, my chest lightens. No more, I realize. For Justine to say this openly—I don’t know what will happen with Tara and me, or Tara and Justine, but the part of our marriage that’s Justine and I is over. This is the last straw. And instead of breaking this camel’s back, I instead feel the weightlessness of freedom. I don’t need to pretend anymore.

With a calmness I don’t have to fake, I ask. “Since you’ve admitted this much, in the interest of truth, how many of his parties have you been to without Tara or I?”

Justine looks at me oddly, then says, “Eight or nine? I’m not sure. I’m tired enough, my memory’s fuzzy.”

So many. So much deception, for so long. Time and past time to end it all.

“It is late—too late,” I say softly, but without warmth. Tara needs to be here for this. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Fine,” Justine huffs. Then a yawn suddenly cracks her face. She shuffles for the stairs, more tired than when she came in. “I need sleep. Gods, Tara’s gonna be insufferable, awake before the rest of us.”

I don’t bother telling her Tara isn’t asleep in our bed. She’ll find out.

Once Justine’s footsteps turn the landing to the second floor, Flora softly asks, “Are you okay, Dad?”

“Not really,” I answer calmly. “It’ll hit me later.”

“You’re done with her, aren’t you.” Not a question.

It takes a moment to admit it out loud. “Yeah.”

“Well, if I have any say in the divorce settlement, I’m coming with you,” Flora says fiercely.

I look up at her, startled. I appreciate the thought but Justine, as her birth-mother, has a better claim to custody than an adoptive father.