It was a performance, but I was so starved for connection that I accepted it gratefully.

The room they’d prepared for me was a masterpiece of thoughtful detail. Soft blankets, a framed photo of us from long ago, even a small shelf stocked with my favorite poetry. It felt like they had remembered me, the real me. That night at dinner, they flanked me, a united front of sudden, suffocating attention. Lyanna poured my chamomile tea before I could reach for it. Darren cut my salmon into neat bites, as if I were a fragile doll. It was sweet, but unsettling. I wasn’t used to being tended to, certainly not by them. They asked about my bookstore, the literacy center where I volunteered, all the small, quiet parts of my life they had shown no interest in for years.