Standing on my porch were Helen, Greg’s mother, wrapped in her gray wool coat, and a tall woman in a navy blazer holding a leather folder. I stepped aside, and they walked past me into the living room. Helen did not take off her coat. She looked at her son, then at Lydia sitting inches from him, and her voice came out low and shaking. “Gregory, tell me this is not what I think it is.”

The woman in the blazer introduced herself as Diane Rivera, my attorney. Marcus rose slowly from his chair, staring at the floor. Lydia’s face had gone the color of paper. “Before anyone leaves this house,” Diane said, opening the folder, “everyone here should look at the first page.” She laid it on the coffee table, and Greg read it, and his hands began to shake.