The scent of my late mother’s house in Maplewood had always been a comforting blend of old paper, polished mahogany, and faint lavender. It was the scent of safety, of legacy. But when I pushed open the heavy oak front door on a crisp Tuesday afternoon, having caught an earlier train home due to a canceled leadership summit in Oak Creek, that familiar aroma was gone.
I came home early and found my husband moving his mistress and their two secret children into my house. He told me to deal with it. I made one phone call instead.
