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.

When I did eventually have lunch with my father, he chose a quiet place in Cambridge with decent bread, low lighting, and the sort of unthreatening menu men like him select when they hope atmosphere will do part of the work of apology. He looked tired. Not transformed, not shattered, not newly noble—just tired, as though consequences had finally required more energy than he was accustomed to spending. He said he was sorry the evening had gone that far. I told him it had gone that far because every earlier version of it had gone unchallenged. He flinched. Good. Some truths should leave a mark. He said he had always thought keeping the peace protected us. I asked whom it had protected, exactly. He had no answer. We ate in long intervals of silence after that, and when we parted, I understood that forgiveness, if it ever came, would not arrive as a single generous feeling. It would have to be built, if at all, from evidence. I was no longer interested in repairing relationships on credit.