Family dinners at the Millers’ always came with rules nobody said out loud: laugh at Helen’s jokes, pretend Andrew’s sharp comments were “just stress,” and smile through any insult as if it were normal. I used to treat those nights like storms—something you survived by staying small. But that evening, the air felt different from the moment we stepped inside. The dining room looked perfect in the way staged homes look perfect: polished table, folded napkins, candles lit to soften the corners. The smell of soup drifted from the kitchen, warm and heavy. Helen sat at the head of the table like a queen who didn’t need a crown, her eyes following me with a sour little smile that never reached her cheeks. Beside her, Claire—her sister—leaned in close and whispered, glancing at me the way people glance at a stain they don’t want on their clothes. Andrew moved quietly, too quietly, carrying bowls and setting them down with an exaggerated care that felt like a performance. When I sat, my chair creaked and Helen’s mouth twitched as if even that sound offended her. I kept my posture straight, my hands folded. I had learned that any small mistake could be used as proof that I didn’t belong.