The afternoon my little sister won her first U.S. Open, I was also busy, having strenuous sex with David Solemn, a man I’d met earlier that morning at Dunkin Donuts. We did it on the white living room carpet in my parents’ new Connecticut house while the match was broadcast live on the big screen TV. David kept pace with the rallies, moving fast when Amy served and volleyed, thrusting hard for first serves and overheads.

“Your sister hits the shit out of the ball,” he said.

My sister, Amy Luna, rising tennis star, took the second set at love. She rocked back and forth on the heels of her sneakers during the closing ceremonies, grinned throughout her older opponent’s retirement speech as the defeated former champion bid farewell to her loyal fans. Amy threw her racquet high in the air, her hands filled with the monstrous trophy and a cardboard replica of the check for the sum of $750,000.

The camera panned over to my parents, wearing new white linen outfits, hugging, kissing—lips on lips, hands in each other’s hair. I watched, my mouth hanging agape. All year long my mother told me about her divorce lawyer. She talked about equitable property settlements and wanted to know if I’d started looking for an apartment. She took an inventory of the furniture, offered me the old living room sofa and matching armchair, a new set of white ceramic dishes from the Pottery Barn. “I’m fine here,” I said, though I wasn’t, and my mother sighed loudly before asking me to return a stack of overdue library books. . . . Read More.