At my sister’s wedding reception, my mother demanded I sign over the penthouse my grandmother left me—and when I refused, she slapped me in front of half of Boston. She thought that would finish me. Then my grandmother walked in with a lawyer.

The reception itself had been engineered for spectacle with a kind of expensive restraint that was meant to imply taste while still advertising cost. White orchids cascaded from mirrored pedestals like ice-water spilling in slow motion. Crystal candleholders caught the chandelier light and multiplied it until the room seemed less illuminated than staged. The champagne tower near the dance floor gleamed so elaborately that several guests photographed it before they photographed the bride. A string quartet, placed near the small stage where the band would later take over, played with professional serenity and the particular expression musicians learn when rich families begin using public space for private warfare. The Fairmont ballroom had all the features my mother adored: marble that reflected the light upward, polished floors that magnified the sound of heels, walls ornate enough to feel old without becoming drafty or inconvenient, and chandeliers grand enough to turn anyone standing beneath them into a figure of consequence. My mother liked locations that could perform status on her behalf. She liked places where a person’s wealth entered the room before their voice did.