Dad resumed his toast. He spoke of discipline, leadership, and real strength. He said Noah had always been built for command. His eyes never touched mine.
I folded my hands in my lap and felt the ridge of an old scar across my knuckle. It came from a bathroom in Prague, but no one in that room would ever know. They thought scars needed simple stories.
Aunt Lydia leaned toward me later, flushed from wine.
“Mara, are you still doing that private contracting thing?”
“Something like that.”
“Still dressing in black too?” she laughed. “Still in that phase?” I smiled. “Some uniforms don’t come in color.”
She laughed because she thought I was joking. Later, I cleared plates I had barely eaten from. No one asked me to. They never had to. In this family, if I made myself useful enough, people forgot to be disappointed in me.
In the kitchen, cold water ran over my wrists. The window above the sink reflected my face: thirty-one, tired, calm, unreadable. Behind me, the dining room laughed.
My father’s voice rose. “Westbridge Academy was supposed to straighten Mara out,” he said. “Full scholarship. Top scores. Then she quit. Vanished. No explanation.”
My mother sighed. “She was always sensitive.” Sensitive.
That was what they called a girl who stopped sleeping. A girl who learned that footsteps in a hallway could mean danger. A girl who left because staying would have destroyed her.
I set the coffee pot down.
“Did you ever wonder why I left?” I asked quietly.
The room froze.
Dad’s jaw tightened. “We know why.”
