At my sister’s wedding reception, my mother demanded I sign over the penthouse my grandmother left me—and when I refused, she slapped me in front of half of Boston. She thought that would finish me. Then my grandmother walked in with a lawyer.

The announcement came in the narrow interval after dessert should have been served and before the cake was wheeled out. It was late enough in the evening that the room had relaxed, but not so late that attention had fragmented. In other words, it was perfect timing. My mother tapped the rim of her wineglass with a fork once, twice, then took the microphone from the bandleader with a smile that anyone who truly knew her would have recognized as dangerous. The smile was bright, but the brightness was not warmth. It was voltage. Guests turned willingly, grateful for one more formal moment after the procession of dinner speeches and sentimental toasts. Chairs shifted. Conversations lowered. The quartet stopped. Madison lifted her face toward the stage with immediate delight. Tyler straightened his jacket. My father moved to stand slightly behind my mother, already wearing that resigned expression that meant he had decided survival required looking bland.

“Family,” my mother began, drawing the word out as though she had personally forged its meaning and lent the rest of us temporary access, “is not only about what we celebrate tonight. It is also about what we build for the future.”