The leather of the rental SUV was white—blindingly, impossibly white. It was the kind of white that didn’t belong in the real world, certainly not on a family road trip through the scorched landscape of the Nevada desert. It was a statement piece, much like the man driving the car.

“Careful with the upholstery, Alice,” my mother, Martha, snapped from the front passenger seat. She didn’t turn around; she just directed her voice toward the rearview mirror, assuming I was on the verge of destroying something. “Greg paid a fortune for this rental. We don’t want your… mess… ruining the aesthetic.”

I sat in the cramped third row, my knees pressed against the back of the middle seat. I gritted my teeth, forcing a neutral expression onto my face. I buckled my six-year-old daughter, Lily, into her booster seat. She was holding her juice box with two hands, terrified of spilling a drop. She knew the rules. Grandma didn’t like spills. Grandma didn’t like noise. Grandma didn’t really like children, unless they were perfect.

“It’s fine, Mom,” Greg called out from the driver’s seat. He adjusted his gold-rimmed aviator sunglasses, catching his own reflection in the rearview mirror. He flashed a grin that was all teeth and no warmth. “If they stain it, I’ll just buy the rental company. Pocket change, right?”

My sister, Chloe, laughed. It was a practiced sound, high and tinkling, designed to stroke her husband’s ego. She sat in the middle row, stretching her legs out comfortably, sipping a sparkling water. “You’re too generous, babe. Really. Most people wouldn’t even invite the poor relations on a luxury trip like this. You’re a saint.”