My father, Roger, was a retired Phoenix police captain who had spent his career dismantling organized crime and had nerves of tempered steel.

My mother, Maureen, was a senior executive in international logistics — sharp, connected, respected.

They had raised me to be independent, and precisely because they trusted my judgment, they had never pushed their way into my marriage.

They did not know how bad it had been.

They were about to.

My mother was watering the orchids in the courtyard when the car pulled in.