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  • I still hear the rain when I close my eyes. Not the soft kind. No, this was the kind that split the sky open like a wound. And in the middle of it, my mother’s voice cut through the storm. Let’s see if trash like you survives out here. I didn’t fight her hand when she shoved me out of the car.
  • I stepped into the reception hall just as the string quartet cut into its next song. Something delicate, something meant to calm nerves. It didn’t work. Not for him. My father locked eyes with me across the room, the champagne flute slipping from his hand. It shattered on the marble floor, a clean, sharp sound, almost surgical.
  • I knew something was off the moment my mother’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth. Her eyes flicked toward my father, then toward my sister, then finally toward me. A silent cue, a warning, a reminder that I was meant to stay oblivious. But I didn’t. I heard every word. It was Christmas dinner. Cinnamon candles burning, fake cheer thick in the room.

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