Forty-three of us were packed into my brother Richard’s backyard on the Fourth of July, and when my son Marcus stood up and tapped his beer bottle with a fork, every last one of us thought he was about to propose.

His girlfriend was sitting right there next to him. I already had my hand on my chest, ready to cry happy tears, bless my heart. The ribs were going on the grill. The little ones were splashing in the pool. My mother was over in her folding chair under the big umbrella with a sweet tea. I want you to picture how plain and normal it all was, because I never got that normal back.

Here’s the thing you have to know about my brother Richard. He was the good one. I’ll just say it straight. When our mother got her cancer back, I was three states away and pretty much useless, and Richard was the one who showed up. He drove her to every single chemo appointment for more than a year. Sat in those cold waiting rooms with her. Held the little pink bucket when she got sick in the car on the way home. Everybody at that party loved that man for it. I loved him for it too. That’s important, so hang onto it.

So back in the spring, when Marcus called me and told me something wasn’t adding up with Grandma’s money, I about took his head off. He’s an accountant, my Marcus, always has had his nose in numbers since he was a boy. He said her bank statements looked strange. He said there was some kind of loan against the house that she didn’t even seem to know about. And I cut him right off.

I said, “Marcus, that is your uncle you’re talking about.” I said, “The man who drives her to chemo. Don’t you dare.”

I really did say that to him. I told my own son to drop it. I told him he ought to be ashamed of himself, throwing dirt on family like that. And he got quiet on the phone, real quiet, and I figured that was the end of it. Wouldn’t you know it, it wasn’t the end of it at all. It was just the end of him telling me about it.