I slid my phone back into my robe pocket and pretended the sting hadn’t reached the softest part of me. My mind drifted, uninvited, back to Indiana—to the house where everything began, long before I ever learned the language of courtrooms or the mechanics of justice.

People imagine childhood as a soft blur of warmth and safety, but mine was carved sharply along the edges of comparison.

My sisters, Zoe and Laya, were the crown jewels of the Monroe family—the dazzling, sunlit sides of the photograph, the parts my parents framed in silver and displayed on every mantle. They were the type of girls people paused for: bright-eyed, magnetic, impossibly charming in a way that seemed to come to them as naturally as breathing.

My parents floated around them like planets fixed in orbit, polishing their achievements as if they were trophies meant to validate our family’s worth in the eyes of neighbors. Zoe with her ribboned ponytail and perfect pirouette. Laya with her bubbling laugh and flawless cheer captain smile. They were adored long before they had done anything to earn it.’