PART 1

I didn’t shed a tear. I simply called the private security firm that guarded the entire gated community—a firm owned by my father.

As the security team began towing his girlfriend’s car and blacklisting his access cards to the estate, my husband ran out in a panic. I looked him dead in the eye and said, “You have five minutes to leave my property.”

My mother was breathing her fragile, final breaths in the hospital bed when my phone buzzed.

A text from David, my husband: “Are you coming home to host the dinner? You can’t put your life on hold forever just because she’s sick.”

Dragging myself home, I found him savoring a $500 vintage wine. “My mother is dying, David,” I whispered, hollowed out.