My father, Richard, stood by the butcher block counter in a crisp slate-gray suit, checking his gold cufflinks before he turned around to face me.

“We’re streamlining how the estate is managed, Madison,” Richard said, his voice booming with the smooth talk he used on bank loan committees.

“Now that your grandfather’s gone, Ethan needs a structured household.”

Ethan was perched on a tall stool at the far end of the island, staring down at his dark sneakers.

His hands lay flat on his thighs, his pale fingers twisting a silver ring with a notched crest round and round on his left hand.

“What sort of structure?” I asked, keeping my voice short and even.