On Christmas Day, my father announced that he had sold the family company and that I would not receive anything at all. While my older siblings were still smiling, pleased with themselves, convinced my share had finally been erased for good, I stood up and calmly stated the identity of the person who had secretly bought it back. All the sounds of glasses clinking suddenly stopped.

On Christmas Day, my father stood at the head of the long mahogany table in our Burlington mansion and shattered what was left of the illusion that we were a family.

He held his wineglass like a gavel, stem pinched between his thick fingers, chandelier light catching on the cut crystal. The table was crowded with china and polished silver. Outside, Vermont snow fell in slow, lazy flakes. Inside, the air felt tight enough to snap.