But this was different. This was the particular terror of knowing that something you believed was solid and true might turn out to be a beautiful lie, and that once you learned the truth, you could never go back to the comfortable ignorance of before.

Six months ago, I’d watched David marry Jessica Miller in the most beautiful ceremony I’d ever witnessed. The Rosewood Country Club had been transformed into something out of a magazine, all white roses and eucalyptus and soft golden light streaming through the tall windows. Jessica had looked stunning in her fitted white gown, her blonde hair in perfect waves, her smile bright enough to light up the whole ballroom. David had stood at the altar looking both nervous and radiantly happy, and when they’d exchanged vows, I’d cried into the lace handkerchief my own mother had given me on my wedding day.

I’d sat in the second row—the first row was reserved for Jessica’s immediate family—and I’d felt nothing but gratitude that my son had found someone who made him smile like that, someone who seemed to adore him as much as I did. Jessica was twenty-nine, beautiful, charming, and according to David, she was everything he’d ever wanted. She worked in marketing, came from a well-off family, and had been nothing but sweet to me during their courtship.

I’d wanted so badly to love her, to gain a daughter after so many years of it being just David and me against the world. And I’d thought I was succeeding. Jessica called me regularly, invited me to lunch, asked about my retirement plans. She’d even offered several times to help me review my investment portfolio, saying she had connections who could get me better returns than my current financial adviser.