Or so I believed.
Our only child, Jared, was thirty-five when Thomas died.
As a boy, Jared had been gentle.
He cried when a bird flew into our kitchen window.
He left cookies beside his bed for Santa Claus even after he knew Santa wasn’t real.
When he was nine, he told me he wanted to build houses for people who didn’t have them.
Somewhere along the way, that boy became a man who measured success in square footage, luxury vehicles, and the number of people who recognized his wife’s handbag.
I blamed myself for that change.
Mothers are very good at blaming themselves.
Jared married Vanessa six years earlier.
She was beautiful in the polished, expensive way of someone who had never been photographed without knowing exactly where the camera was.
Her father, Richard Vale, owned a real-estate development company.
Her mother, Celeste, belonged to several charity committees and spoke constantly about the importance of family while treating waiters like furniture.
