She moved around the patio, pouring aged scotch for her husband, Preston, and his father, Garrett, laughing at their clumsy, arrogant jokes. Her laughter sounded too bright, too strained, like that of a child terrified of punishment, trying desperately to prove she was good. My heart tightened with every false note of merriment. Even after all these years, she was still trying to win their affection—the affection of people incapable of loving anyone but themselves.