From the bedroom doorway, my aunt Deirdre laughed and swirled her wine like she was toasting the destruction. “Who knows. Maybe now someone will finally feel sorry enough for you to give you a chance at a date.”

I remained silent. Crying would have fed them. I had learned over the years that tears were a language my family translated into permission to hurt me more. So I swallowed every lump in my throat and forced my breathing to stay level.

I slipped downstairs wearing what was left in my wardrobe. A faded t-shirt and threadbare jeans that had survived because they were not how my family wanted me to present myself. I reached the bottom step and heard the doorbell echo.

“Selena,” my mother shouted from the kitchen. Her voice carried the tone of a queen summoning a servant. “Get that. You are not doing anything useful.”