Her younger sister, Rachel, was a constant fixture in my childhood. She wasn’t just an aunt; she was the “cool” aunt, the kindergarten teacher with the infinite patience and the secret stash of candy. She was the one who covered for me when I dented the bumper of my first car. She was family.

We lived comfortably, cushioned by the success of Dad’s business. There were family vacations to Disney World, leasing new cars every two years, and my mother’s endless charity galas that made her a local saint. But the centerpiece of our existence was Sunday dinner. It was mandatory. Unless you were intubated or dead, you were at our table.