Every neat column, every precise ratio, every little red checkmark seemed to confirm the terrible story I was telling myself, and I flipped through the pages faster and faster, my sense of dread mounting with every measured, meticulous, incriminating line.

I did not stop to ask myself why a criminal mastermind would keep her records in soft-covered leather in careful cursive.

I was well past asking myself sensible questions.

I was building a case against my mother-in-law, and every new piece of evidence fit beautifully, because I had already decided what the evidence meant.

This, I have since learned, is exactly how a wrong conclusion protects itself.

Once your mind commits to a story, it stops evaluating new information neutrally and starts sorting it, keeping everything that confirms the story and quietly discarding everything that does not.