I’d been recovering from my hip replacement for six weeks and, honestly, I was desperate for any sign that my son and his wife, Vanessa, still wanted me in their lives. Since my husband, Robert, died two years ago, leaving me with his tech empire fortune, things had felt different between us. Colder.

So, I dressed carefully that morning in my navy-blue dress, the one Robert always said brought out my eyes, and took a taxi to the marina. The yacht was magnificent, a gleaming white vessel that probably cost more than most people’s houses. David greeted me at the dock with an embrace that felt performative, while Vanessa watched from the deck, her smile as sharp as broken glass.