I sat on the far side of the oak table with my leather briefcase lying flat next to my water glass.

My mother, Eleanor, sat across from me in a gray wool jacket, her fingers smoothing the front of her cardigan over her waist again and again.

Chelsea sat beside her, staring at her acrylic nails and refusing to look across the table.

The mediator, a quiet man named Thomas Miller with gray hair and wire-frame glasses, opened his yellow legal pad and checked his watch.

“We have three hours scheduled for this session,” Mr.