At my son’s wedding, I felt something was wrong with the bride. When the priest asked if anyone objected, the church doors flew open. A woman walked in. It was the judge. She looked at the bride and said, “I object. “

Isabella Rossi was the perfect woman. Too perfect. A flawless, curated masterpiece of a person. When my son, David, introduced her six months ago, his face illuminated with a kind of incandescent joy I hadn’t seen in years, I had tried, with every fiber of my being, to like her. She was undeniably beautiful, with the kind of classical, sculpted features that artists weep over. She was intelligent, armed with a quick wit and a degree from a prestigious university. She was, above all, charming.