Beside me, my son watched his father make those promises with that flat, careful attention, and I did not yet understand that he was not simply watching.

He was gathering the last piece of evidence he needed — confirmation, in his father’s own vows, of exactly what kind of man made them.

At the reception they seated us at a back table with distant relatives and junior associates from the firm — people who knew exactly who I was and looked anywhere but at me, to spare themselves the discomfort of my face.

I kept my composure.

I focused on Otis, who ate slowly and deliberately, the way a person eats when they are saving themselves for something.

I want to be honest about how that back table felt, because it is a particular species of humiliation that people who have not lived it tend to underestimate.