At the cemetery, my brother shoved me against the gravestone, snarling: “This is where you belong.” He didn’t notice the mourners behind us, phones raised, recording every word he said.

The New England autumn had stripped the cemetery of its summer softness, leaving behind a stark, skeletal beauty. The sky was a vast, unforgiving sheet of pewter gray, and a chill wind whispered through the ancient oaks, sending cascades of brittle, brown leaves skittering across the manicured lawns. It was a day for endings, a day for reflection. It was the first anniversary of her mother’s death.