Behind the gates of those gilded estates in Beverly Hills lie motives and motifs found in every neighborhood—greed and charity, fear and courage, loyalty and betrayal, the most magical things and the most mundane. Mom and Dad moved into that famous little town fifty years ago but could never buy a lot there today.

Not even a tiny one.

Their 1912 Monterey Colonial is the oldest house on the block. Grainy photos of the Beverly Hills Hotel under construction show our home in the foreground, all by its lonesome in what was then a bean field. It belonged to the hotel’s first owner, and the Moscatels purchased it in the seventies from the actress who played Morticia on The Addams Family.

The only thing that woman left on the property was the Peacock chair she memorably sat in on the television show. Mom never met the lady or watched her program but kept that chair around because she thought it nicely matched our patio’s lattice. I saw it as a brittle piece of wicker furniture gathering dust, not understanding its portentous significance for years.

That fateful evening, Remember Me, an episode, of all things, about adoption, was screened at Paramount Studios. The Moscatels were usually invited to those events, but the Landons couldn’t find a space for Albert that night.

It’s how Eleanor recalled it, at least, which didn’t make sense to her because Michael was the showrunner. So when she spotted Lynn’s coiffeur sitting in the audience, Mom nearly lost it.

How could they deny my son and seat that man in his place? she asked herself.

It was one of many questions that would go unanswered in the sorrowful days that followed my brother’s death. It’s the nature of tragedy. The emotional upheaval of loss blurs a survivor’s memory. And their grief, from denial to bouts of anger, guilt, bargaining, and ultimately acceptance, often ends with a little piece of them dying too.

Behind the gates of those gilded estates in Beverly Hills lie motives and motifs found in every neighborhood—greed and charity, fear and courage, loyalty and betrayal, the most magical things and the most mundane. Mom and Dad moved into that famous little town fifty years ago but could never buy a lot there today.

Not even a tiny one.

Their 1912 Monterey Colonial is the oldest house on the block. Grainy photos of the Beverly Hills Hotel under construction show our home in the foreground, all by its lonesome in what was then a bean field. It belonged to the hotel’s first owner, and the Moscatels purchased it in the seventies from the actress who played Morticia on The Addams Family.

The only thing that woman left on the property was the Peacock chair she memorably sat in on the television show. Mom never met the lady or watched her program but kept that chair around because she thought it nicely matched our patio’s lattice. I saw it as a brittle piece of wicker furniture gathering dust, not understanding its portentous significance for years...