As we pulled into the driveway of Oliver and Felicity’s house, I felt the familiar jab of nervous energy and jealousy. Intimidation came with the property. Their driveway wasn’t paved, it was brick. Their landscaping wasn’t nice, it was manicured. Their house wasn’t big, it was a freakin’ Victorian mansion. As in ten-foot-tall double solid oak doors that opened into an atrium. There was a mural of a baby angel on the parlor ceiling, for crying out loud. But the heartbreaking side of it all was that in their huge, safe house, they couldn’t protect their family. We all saw the writing on the wall as their lives figuratively crumbled away. Still, envy held a stranglehold on me.

I didn’t want to feel this way, bitter that I picked the wrong brother to marry. I loved Cody, despite his cloying affection, but sometimes love wasn’t enough. While my house literally crumbled, I scrimped and saved every penny, worked for Scrooge’s evil twin, and watched YouTube DIY videos on how to fix busted plumbing, while Felicity threw money hand over fist at gardeners to turn her bushes into whimsical topiaries. Well, la-di-da. To me, they were just tacky animals.

Cody parked in our usual spot by the rabbit bush, next to the llama bush where my father-in-law parked, and my boots tap-tap-tapped across the brick walkway, past myriad flowers in full bloom. Hell, even their soil was “rich.”

We let ourselves in and found Felicity and Oliver in the living room talking in low tearful tones with my in-laws, Joe and Debra, while Sydney stuffed her mouth full of hors d’oeuvres and Eliot scrutinized each one warily. Several boxes of games were spread out on the carpet. Connect 4. Candyland. Twister—a personal favorite of mine. The children were oblivious to the angst living rent-free inside us all; Debra made sure of that as she spoke in cheery tones with them, filling their fat cheeks with food and their ears with chipper words.

Felicity, on the other hand, looked as war-torn as she must have felt. Her weary blue eyes were streaked with midnight-flight red since the day Vera went missing. Pacing the room with arms tightly folded across her chest, I was pretty sure she was wearing the same clothes she had worn yesterday. In happier days she been the talk of the town, admired for her glamor and elegance. Now her name was on everyone’s lips for an entirely different reason. Tragedy always brings out the crazies with an axe to grind, from the neighborhood gossips to the social media vultures with the whole world at their malicious fingertips. From social butterfly to “terrible mom”—quite a fall from grace.