We had just left my parents’ house—a sprawling, immaculate colonial in the suburbs that I had spent my entire adult life trying to escape and subsequently trying to please. The “Sunday Dinner.” A ritual. An obligation. A trap.

I merged into the right lane, my hands trembling on the steering wheel. The vibration traveled up my arms, settling as a cold knot in my chest. For years, I had told myself it was fine. That my mother’s sharp tongue was just “her way.” That my sister Emma’s competitive cruelty was just “sibling rivalry.” That my father’s passivity was just “keeping the peace.”

I glanced at Lily again. She blinked, a slow, robotic movement. She looked older than she was. Too old.

” almost home, baby,” I whispered.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t even blink.

When we finally pulled into our driveway, the sun was setting, casting long, bruised shadows across the lawn. Inside, the house felt different. It was no longer just a building; it was a sanctuary, the only place where the air didn’t taste like judgment.