Texts from Samantha. Texts from Greg. Texts from Greg’s mother, whose name in my contacts was Margaret Hollister and who had been carefully polite to me at the two dinners we had shared and whom I suspected, from those dinners, of being the origin of at least some of Greg’s opinions about what was appropriate and what was not.
Texts from cousins of Samantha’s I had not spoken to in years, which meant someone had been making calls of their own.
Voicemails whose previews contained the words how could you and what did you do and call me immediately.
I read the texts first because I have always preferred to understand the complete landscape before responding to any part of it.
The narrative that had assembled itself in the two hours I was trimming roses was that I had sabotaged my daughter’s wedding out of spite. That I had canceled everything as a form of revenge. That I had deliberately chosen her wedding week to demonstrate my power over the family and that this was the
