My daughter texted me while I was sitting at the bank desk with my pen poised over a $25,000 wire transfer form for her luxury honeymoon. *“You’re not invited to my wedding,”* she wrote. *“My fiancé doesn’t want you there.”*
He died twelve years earlier on a September Saturday while pruning roses. He was fifty-six. I was inside making coffee. I came out with two mugs and found him beside the hydrangeas, clippers near...