My brother, Garrett, had married Jessica six years ago. She was one of those women who always looked put together, even at 7:00 a.m. on Christmas morning.

Usually, anyway.

But that day, she’d shown up looking like she’d been up all night, her usually perfect blonde hair stringy, her designer sweater wrinkled. I could smell the faint, sour scent of wine on her breath from across the room.