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 father tried to guide my mother toward a side exit. She jerked her arm away from him and hissed my name through her teeth as if it were a private threat she still intended to collect later. Eleanor heard it.

“You will do no such thing,” she said.

The room stilled again.

“You will not call her. You will not go to her home. You will not send messages through anyone else. And if I must take additional steps to protect Paige from you, I will.”

There was something in her voice I had never heard before. Not merely authority. Authority stripped of apology. Age had removed from her whatever residue of social politeness might once have made room for mercy.

My mother actually stepped back.