One spring day in 2015, my husband, Chris, invited our family to a cookout with his friends and their families. I expected hot dogs on a grill and kids playing games. Instead, we showed up to a yard in Calhoun, Georgia filled with men in KKK regalia. This wasn't a cookout. It was a Klan rally. Before I could make sense of the scene, a man approached me to say that my husband was having a KKK robe made for our three-year-old son. My heart lurched into my throat. I knew Chris had been struggling with addiction and PTSD from...