My grandma keeps company with spirits. A Dewar’s on the rocks every day at four o’clock on the button, and the spectral kind that rattle around her head. This isn’t some crackpot theory; it’s a matter of fact. They’re here, now, passing through the walls of her old house on Cape Cod, where I’ve come to work on this book. For a long time, I thought it was a book about divorce: a bedside companion for the boo-hoo
crowd, Chicken Soup for Shattered Souls
. But while I may have set out to interview people about their most brutal breakups, I’m realizing now, almost four...