My family’s estate in Greenwich had always carried an air of invincibility — manicured grounds, stone pillars, the quiet heavy weight of old money.

My father sat in his study in a tailored suit, looking as though he’d been called to an inconvenient board meeting rather than confronted over a crime.

I set the phone on his mahogany desk.

“Why were you in that hospital room when Gabriela had her baby?” He didn’t look at the screen.

He closed his eyes a moment — not surprised, only remembering.

“You’re hysterical,” he said.