On paper, we were the American Dream personified. My father, Richard—everyone called him Rick—was the charismatic owner of a booming construction firm in Lexington. He built half the luxury condos in the greater Boston area. My mother, Sarah, was his anchor. They had been married for twenty-five years, a quarter-century of what looked like unwavering devotion. Mom came from a sprawling Catholic family in Connecticut, one of five sisters who were thick as thieves.