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.

After that, the reception did not so much end as dissolve. Guests reassembled into whispering clusters. The band, uncertain whether music would now be offensive, began packing one instrument at a time. Servers hovered with the terrible posture of hospitality workers trapped inside a rich family’s implosion. The wedding cake, ornate and untouched, was eventually rolled to the side like a beautiful object from a canceled ritual. Marcus collected the unsigned deed, the supplementary papers, and every copy that had been laid out on any public surface. He instructed the event manager, in careful legal language, to preserve the security footage, audio, and guest incident record. Then he turned to me and said, “You’re leaving with your grandmother tonight.”

It was not a suggestion.