Maeve's POV
My mother called every Sunday at noon, without exception.
Noon, on the dot, as if the call had been scheduled by someone with a military background and strong opinions about the moral implications of not being punctual. For as long as I can remember, the Sunday call had been a fixture of my life as reliable and unavoidable as tax season or the annual Collins Foundation gala.
I was sitting on my bed with a case law textbook open in my lap when my phone lit up. The contact photo I had assigned to my mother was one I had taken at last year's Christmas, where she was standing in front of the window in the Connecticut house with the snow outside behind her, wearing cream cashmere, looking like an oil painting of a senator's wife.
She had never asked me why I used that partic
