A month after my divorce, my ex-mother-in-law called at 5 a.m., demanding I cook for her husband’s 70th birthday. After years as a servant, I replied, “Who is this?” Hours later, they learned the truth.

Apparently, Beatrice had forgotten.

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I answered the phone.

“Hello?”

Her voice came sharp and impatient.

“Samantha, finally. I need you at the house by five-thirty.”

I stared at the ceiling.

“Excuse me. Who is this?”

The silence that followed was almost beautiful.

“What do you mean, who is this? It’s Beatrice!”

“Oh.”