Meghan, thirty, was a sharp, beautiful marketing coordinator. We met at a Fourth of July barbecue, and within three months, I knew I wanted to spend my life with her. She fit into my family seamlessly. My mother adored her, and my father often remarked how lucky I was.

Our wedding was set for a crisp Saturday in October at St. Michael’s in Old Town. The reception at the Chicago History Museum was booked, invitations sent to 150 guests. I’d obsessed over every detail, from the vintage bourbon bar to the jazz trio. My life was a perfectly executed project plan, on schedule and under budget.

The night before the wedding, I was at the Palmer House Hotel with my father. My mother and Meghan were at another hotel, honoring the tradition of not seeing the groom. Robert and I were reviewing the next day’s timeline over room service when he excused himself to the restroom, leaving his iPhone unlocked on the table.