At Sunday dinner, my son-in-law smiled across the …

The first year, the guarantee was one hundred eighty thousand dollars. The next renewal raised it. Then there was an equipment lease cross-default.

Then an expansion. By the time we hit the fourth year, my personal guaranty sat at $480,000, attached to a revolving line everyone kept pretending was temporary. Each time, Anthony had a reason.

Weather delays. A supplier dispute. Two clients dragging their feet.

A labor shortage. A truck accident. And always the same ending: “We’re so close, Margaret.

This is the last stretch.”

I knew enough to see the pattern. I also knew enough to recognize Rachel’s face whenever the subject came up. She went pale around money the way some people go pale around blood.

Her father handled money when she was young. Then I did. Anthony had stepped neatly into that role, and she let him.