Margaret arrived in a tailored navy coat and looked almost exactly as she had seven years earlier.

Her hair was whiter, but the posture was unchanged: shoulders squared, chin lifted, expression composed into polite disapproval.

“You’re making a great deal out of a misunderstanding,” she began.

“Which misunderstanding?” Miriam asked.

Margaret turned toward me.

“Grace, we were all exhausted by the divorce.

Warren was grieving the end of his marriage.”

“He chose to end it,” I said.