By the time I walked into the breakfast room, Diane Hale was standing at the kitchen island in her wool coat, both hands wrapped around a mug, taking in the space with the deliberate pleasure of someone reclaiming territory. She was sixty-three, precise in her appearance, and had spent the twenty-two years of my marriage to her son in a state of carefully managed disappointment where I was concerned. She had wanted Trevor to marry someone from a particular category of family. I was not from that category. I was a woman with a professional background, an independent account, and the inconvenient habit of saying plainly what I meant—three qualities Diane had found difficult to forgive.
