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.

By noon I had showered, dressed in a navy suit, covered the bruise on my cheek as much as concealer allowed without pretending it was not there, and gone downstairs to the car Marcus had sent. The city was superficially unchanged. Back Bay brownstones remained expensive and severe. Winter-bare branches scratched at the air over Commonwealth Avenue. Women in narrow coats moved with the clipped velocity of people who measure competence in stride length. Men on calls talked into the cold about numbers, closings, markets, schedules. Yet under the ordinary motion of the day, my life had shifted its weight.

At the first foundation office, three board members stood when I entered. Two looked relieved. One looked cautious. All three looked at my cheek and then, with the discretion of well-bred people who know precisely when not to stare, looked away.

“Ms. Harrison,” one of them began, then corrected himself. “Paige.”