Jessica Miller seemed perfect on paper: blonde, bubbly, and supposedly head over heels for my thirty-two-year-old son. Jessica Miller seemed perfect on paper: blonde, bubbly, and supposedly head over heels for my thirty-two-year-old son.

As a fifty-eight-year-old widow who’d raised David alone after his father died when he was twelve, I was just grateful to see him happy.

The wedding had been a lavish affair at the Rosewood Country Club, Jessica’s family sparing no expense. Three hundred guests, a ten-course dinner, an open bar, and Rick Brennan as the photographer, the most sought-after wedding photographer in Dallas.

I remembered thinking how lucky David was to have in-laws who could afford such extravagance. My teacher’s pension certainly couldn’t have covered it.

But now, staring at Rick’s business card in my trembling hand, I realized that “luck” might have been the wrong word entirely.