At my son’s wedding, something in me recoiled from the bride. It wasn’t anything you could point to—no obvious flaw, no slip of demeanor—just a tremor in the air around her.
Isabella Rossi looked like perfection incarnate. Too immaculate, too polished—like a person assembled by a curator with exquisite taste and a steady hand. When my son, David, brought her into our lives six months ago, the light in his face—blinding, boyish, unguarded—almost undid me. I wanted to like her. I tried with every scrap of … Read more