She moved around, pouring aged scotch for her husband, Preston, and his father, Garrett, and laughing at their clumsy jokes. Her laughter sounded too bright, too strained, like that of a child terrified of punishment, trying desperately to prove she was good. My heart tightened with that laughter. Even after all these years, she wa

s still trying to win their affection—the affection of people incapable of loving anyone but themselves.