She laughed, a real laugh that filled the expensive room and softened every hard edge inside it.
The following evening, Regina arrived at my mother’s small house carrying meatloaf in a glass dish.
She had cooked it herself and burned one side badly enough that my mother whispered a prayer over it.
There were no photographers.
No board members.
No family trust.
No contract hidden beneath the plates.
Regina sat beside me at a crowded kitchen table and reached for my hand where everyone could see.
For the first time, nobody had paid either of us to pretend.
