I rang the doorbell. My ex-husband, Conrad, answered, his face twisted with a rage I knew all too well. “We’re pressing charges,” he snarled.

“I’m not taking anyone’s side until I hear both of them,” I said, pushing past him into the house.

The living room felt like a tribunal. Conrad’s parents were stiffly perched on the couch, his brother Potter stood by the fireplace, and his sister Fen lurked in a corner. The bride’s parents stood like guard dogs near the entrance. And in the center of it all sat the bride, Lauren, her face a grotesque mask of bandages, a splinted nose, and two blossoming black eyes. She was crying theatrically, dabbing at her eyes carefully around the swelling.