So when Elaine called me on my wedding morning and told me my mother was asking for me, I did not need to think about what to do. I did not need to weigh it. I did not need to feel guilt. Here is what I knew, with a clarity I have rarely felt in my life: if I walked out of that hotel room and drove thirty-five minutes to that hospice bed, my mother would use her last breath to ruin my wedding. She would say something to me — one sentence, the perfect sentence, the sentence she had been saving — and she would say it knowing that it would echo through my head for the rest of my life. Every time I looked at a photo from the wedding. Every time I cut the cake. Every time I looked at Graham across a dinner table and remembered our first dance. That sentence, whatever it would have been, would be there. I had spent five years of therapy learning how to protect the things I loved from Diana. My wedding day was the biggest thing I had ever loved. And I was not going to walk willingly into the one place where she could still, even from a deathbed, burn it down.