At my sister’s wedding reception, my mother demanded I sign over the penthouse my grandmother left me—and when I refused, she slapped me in front of half of Boston. She thought that would finish me. Then my grandmother walked in with a lawyer.

My heels sounded much louder than they should have on the polished floor. I was acutely aware of the distance between the back of the room and the stage area, aware of the shifting eyes, aware of the fact that no one in attendance could fail to understand that whatever happened next had been arranged without my consent. I stopped beside my mother under the central chandelier. Up close I could smell her perfume, something expensive and powder-clean, mixed with champagne and the crisp starch of her silk dress. Her smile, seen from that distance, contained no softness at all.

“You know how much your grandmother loves Madison,” she said into the microphone, as if we were continuing a private conversation rather than participating in a public trap. “And because families care for each other, and because tonight is about blessing this new beginning, we thought it would be meaningful to celebrate a gift that will help the newlyweds start their life together.”

She placed one manicured hand on the leather folder.

“The Seaport penthouse,” she said.

For one suspended second the room made no sound.