My parents’ house sat on a hill in a neighborhood that prioritized manicured lawns over warm hearts. It was a sprawling colonial that smelled of lemon polish and old resentments. As I pulled into the driveway, I saw the tableau that had defined my existence.

My father was by the garage, wiping grease from his hands with a rag that looked cleaner than my soul felt in his presence. My mother, Martha, sat on the porch like a queen in exile, barking orders about the hydrangeas. And there, lounging on the tailgate of my father’s truck, was my sister, Cara, along with her husband Nate and their son, Mason.