Not trust Shirley.

Shirley, who had sat at my husband’s deathbed with her photo albums.

Shirley, who had brought the casseroles, who had squeezed my arm in the waiting room, who had just offered, with such warmth, to take me into her home and manage my living arrangements.

I read on, and as I read, every warm and sympathetic thing my sister-in-law had done over four long months turned slowly inside out in front of me, and showed me its other face.

It is a dizzying thing, to watch your memory of someone turn over in front of you.