At 1:57 p.m., I stood in my bedroom staring at myself in the mirror.
I looked like someone who was about to be politely perceived.
My bonnet cap sat on my head because it was the only hat I owned and also because my scalp needed emotional support.
I practiced my face.
Smile. Too much.
Smile less. Now I looked like I was about to report someone to the authorities.
Neutral. Great. I looked like furniture.
“Just go,” I told myself.
My stomach did the thing it did when my brain tried to force my body into social situations: it curled up like a pill bug and hoped predatory extroverts would pass by.
I grabbed the cookie tin from the counter—because apparently that had become my assigned role in this neighborhood: Walking Offering.
As I headed for the door, Nancy called from the living room, “Remember! If you panic, ask a question. People love talking about themselves.”
“Like what?” I asked, hand on the doorknob.
“Like,” Nancy said thoughtfully, “how does it feel to have a son named William Williams?”
“NO,” I snapped.
Nancy laughed. “Okay, okay. Ask Diana about moving. Ask Liam about school. Ask about the house. Houses are safe. Houses can’t judge you.”
“Your house judges me,” I muttered.
“That’s love,” Nancy said.
I left before she could say anything else that would become a permanent scar on my personality.
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