“We’ve had concerns about Harold’s leadership for years,” one admitted. “Your grandmother built something special. It’s good to see her vision protected,” he said.

The social fallout rippled outward. Friends of my parents suddenly remembered previous engagements.

Invitations to charity events dried up. The Ashford name, which had once opened every door in town, now carried an asterisk.

I didn’t celebrate their humiliation. But I didn’t mourn it either.

Margaret Coleman called me on Saturday morning. “How are you holding up?” she asked.

“I don’t know yet. Ask me in six months,” I said.