As we stepped into the hotel lobby, the polished marble floors echoed with the voices of relatives I hadn’t seen in years. The air smelled of expensive lilies and old money.

“Emily! My goodness, it’s been so long!”

Aunt Dorothy rushed over with the kind of exaggerated theatricality that made my teeth ache. She grasped my shoulders, holding me at arm’s length. “You’ve gotten so thin. Are you eating properly, dear?”

“I’m fine, Aunt Dorothy. You look well.” I forced a smile, the kind I had perfected in the months following Michael’s funeral.

I hadn’t starved myself. I had been working tirelessly at a small accounting firm, raising a grieving child alone, and managing the complexities of a single-parent household. I was lean, yes, but it was the leanness of survival, of muscle built from carrying the weight of the world.