Brandon and Vanessa pulled into my driveway at nine the next morning, and I watched them through the front window with a cup of tea. Brandon tried his key, and it would not turn. He pounded on the door, shouting that I had gone too far, while Vanessa stood behind him in sunglasses, calling the locksmith’s van a ridiculous overreaction. I opened the door only a few inches, and a cold calm settled over me. “Good morning,” I said. “The venue has been canceled, and the account is closed.”

Vanessa laughed sharply, but Brandon had gone pale. “Mom, the deposits are nonrefundable,” he whispered. I held up the binder and said, “Every contract is in my name, and every one has an exit clause.” Then I laid the first bank statement on the porch railing, where the sunlight fell on the spa charges, the hotel, and a jeweler’s receipt dated three weeks earlier