PART 1 — THE NIGHT AFTER THE FUNERAL

The night after my son’s funeral, my daughter-in-law stood in the marble foyer of his four-million-dollar house and told me:

“Go die in the mountains, useless old woman.”

For a moment, I thought grief had made me mishear her.

Then Chloe folded her arms.

Behind her hung the enormous wedding portrait she and Leo had taken seven years earlier.

My son looked healthy in that photograph.

Broad smile.

Dark suit.

One hand wrapped around Chloe’s waist as though nothing in the world could ever separate them.

I looked at his face instead of hers.

That was the only reason I did not break down in front of her.

My name is Margaret Sterling.

I was sixty-eight when my son Leo died after a long illness.

During the final months of his life, Chloe had been sweetness itself.

She brought me coffee at the hospital.

Called me Mom.

Held my hand outside the oncology unit.

Once, while Leo slept, she put her head on my shoulder and whispered: