I break first, turning to look at the portrait of my parents over the fireplace. My dad’s large hand on my mom’s shoulder, protective even in the painting, his gaze daring anyone to touch her. Their love was epic, something my sisters and I used to daydream about, a love that started as duty but blossomed into something much larger. Our father was dear to us, and loyal to her. After having Willa and me, Mother almost died giving birth to Mary, and he never made her try for another. And though Leo was the obvious choice for heir—his nephew and godson is nearly as good as a son, and much of the
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