When Judge Elden Marwick looked down at my coffee-stained apron, asking if my ‘genius brain’ could count beyond ten, and let my parents laugh as if they were already burying me, he didn’t know that the woman they were mocking had a tape recorder in her pocket, a Harvard law degree in her briefcase, and a grandmother who had prepared a final trap specifically for rooms like this.

Perfume I would never wear. Then came the photos. “Stand by the fireplace, Wanda.

The light is gorgeous.”

My mother would lift her phone. My father would drape an arm around me. We would smile.

Ten minutes later, the photo would be online with some caption about family, blessings, and Vermont air. Eleanor never joined those pictures. She stood in the doorway with her arms crossed and watched them perform parenthood like it was a brand partnership.

One night after they left, I asked her why they were like that. She poured tea, sat across from me, and said, “Some people look at other human beings the way they look at mirrors. If you reflect well on them, they call that love.