Beside me, my daughter Mina squeezed my hand. Her grip was terrified, her small palm damp with sweat. She was only six, but she understood the tone. She knew that in this room, we were not family; we were the entertainment. We were the courtjesters in threadbare clothes, paraded out to make the royals feel taller.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t cry. Tears are for those who believe they can be comforted, and I had lost that delusion years ago. I just watched them.

I looked at the people who raised me. The mother who had birthed me, now stripping me of dignity under floral arches that cost more than my annual rent. I looked at the sister who once braided my hair and whispered secrets in the dark, now standing in a white cocktail dress, using my pain as a stepping stool to elevate her own status.

Humiliation is a sharp thing, jagged and rusted. But sharper still is the silence of someone who is already planning.’