At my son’s wedding in Seattle, the bride looked me dead in the eyes and said, “Starting tomorrow, you’re no longer part of this family. I’m the boss now—not you.” I smiled, walked away like it didn’t hurt, and canceled the $80,000 I’d promised for their first home—right there at the reception, while the music was still playing.

She called me Tuesday morning. Her voice was sweet like candy, with poison in it.

“Helen, I think we’ve all been too stressed. I’d like to come over and talk. Clear the air between us. Just you and me, woman to woman.”

Every part of me screamed this was dangerous.

But I also knew that if I said no, it would look like I was the one avoiding peace.

“When?” I asked.

“This afternoon around two.”

“Fine,” I said. “Two o’clock.”

I called Ruth immediately after.

“She’s coming. I need you here.”

“Absolutely not,” Ruth said. “If I’m there, she’ll say you ganged up on her. But I’ll be parked outside in my car. Keep your phone in your pocket with speaker on. I’ll record everything.”

At 1:55, a car pulled into my driveway.

It wasn’t just Amanda.

Amanda and her mother, Barbara, both got out. They were wearing expensive casual clothes and carrying a gift bag.