Three days later an embossed invitation arrived, forwarded by an old neighbor: Sela and Tate’s baby shower, at my parents’ house, that Saturday.

They had clearly mailed it weeks earlier, before the financial reckoning hit — expecting me to show up and hand over a generous check.

“Are you really going?” Lennox asked, leaning in the doorway as I put on a sleek black dress.

I looked like I was going to a funeral, which felt about right.

“They won’t answer the emails about signing the debt-assumption paperwork,” I said, sliding Fitz’s documents into a leather portfolio.

“Tate’s dodging the bank.