Back then, Marcus was different. Fun, carefree, with bright eyes and a contagious laugh. He used to show up under my window at midnight with an acoustic guitar, singing the blues until the neighbors started yelling and threatening to call the police. I would dash out in my pajamas and fuzzy bunny slippers, and we’d run off, giggling like teenagers, even though we were both well over thirty.

The door creaked open, but instead of my husband’s familiar footsteps, I heard the distinctive clack of my mother-in-law’s heels. Veronica swept into the room with that air of authority she always carried, as if this were her territory, her domain, where she was the absolute queen.