Hi Olivia, I’m Lainey’s best friend, and I was with her today at your sister’s house. I just wanted to apologize for how we handled things and for the hurt we have caused your family. We didn’t know your parents were going to be there. Lainey is a wonderful person, and I hope one day you have the chance to get to know her. Please extend my apologies to the rest of your family. Sincerely, Hannah
My first thought after I hit send is that Lainey is going to kill me and maybe rightly so. My intentions are pure—just as they were with Ashley—but they had still backfired in that case. Badly. Why would I think that this effort will turn out differently? I try to remember how to unsend direct messages on Instagram. I know there’s a way. Before I can figure it out, a response comes in.
Hi Hannah, I think you must have the wrong Olivia??
I stare at the screen, confused, returning to her profile, reading her bio. Could there be two people named Olivia Sheffield who went to the University of Texas and have a reference to tennis in their Instagram bio? It seems highly unlikely.
Does your sister have triplets? I text back, thinking surely that narrows it down to one person.
Her reply is immediate: Yes. But are you sure this matter concerns me? My sister and I lead very separate lives.
I read the message twice, parsing every word, trying to decipher the meaning. One thing seems certain: Olivia doesn’t know about our visit today.
Having a voice-to-voice conversation is pretty much the last thing I want to do, but I text back: Yes, I think I should probably explain. I then type my phone number, asking her to please give me a call if she can.
My phone vibrates within seconds.
“This is Hannah,” I say, my heart racing and my palms sweating, suddenly terrified that I might be making a bad situation even worse.
“Hi, Hannah. It’s Olivia,” she says in a low, raspy voice. Oddly, there is no trace of a Texas accent.
I take a deep breath and say, “So this is sort of a long story, but I’m just going to come out with it.” I pause, then force myself to say the rest. “Your father had an affair with my best friend’s mother. We went over to Ashley’s house today to tell her about it. It was a bad scene, and I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am.”
There is silence on the end of the line, and I wonder if she’s hung up on me.
Then she clears her throat and says, “I’m confused. When, exactly, did my father have this affair?” Her voice is strangely calm.
“Um. Well…Lainey’s thirty-two now,” I say. “So I guess it started, like, thirty-three, maybe thirty-four years ago?”
“Ohh. So are you saying that…Lainey is my sister?”
“I’m sorry, yes,” I say, realizing I left out the most important part.
“Wow,” she whispers. “Wow.”
“I know this must be so hard to hear.”
“Yeah,” she says under her breath. “I can’t…I’m just a little shocked right now.”
“I know. I’m really sorry. About the affair and all.”
“It’s okay. That’s not your fault, obviously,” she says.
I stare into the distance, shocked by her ability to show any grace in this moment.
She asks me a few questions about our meeting with Ashley, and I tell her everything, right down to getting thrown out of the house.
“Yikes,” Olivia says.
“Yes. We should have left as soon as we realized your mother was there.”
“Yeah. I feel bad for her…. But I’m not surprised that Ashley handled it so poorly. She’s not one to rise to the occasion.”
I pause, then say, “So y’all aren’t close?”
“No. Not at all.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Family dynamics can be so complicated.”
“Yeah. And politics don’t make it any easier,” she says.
“True,” I murmur noncommittally.
My political views have always been moderate—falling under the “why can’t we all just get along” umbrella—but in the past several years, I’ve discovered that middle of the road is no longer safe terrain. Both extremes will eventually come for you. The good news is that having a deeply self-absorbed mother has taught me a lot of survival skills. I know how to appease just about anyone on any topic, including politics.
“I’m not really speaking to anyone in my family right now,” Olivia continues. “In part because of politics.”
Trying to show empathy, I blurt out that I don’t get along with my mother. “She’s a bit of a narcissist,” I say.
“Are the two of you estranged?”
“No. But at the moment, she’s not talking to me.”
“Ah. The good ol’ silent treatment. Been there, done that.”
“With your mother?”
“No. With Ashley. But my mother enables her.”
