Cassandra appeared next, all polished hair and flawless makeup. She gave me a quick side hug that felt like nothing.

“Hi, Nana Bea,” she said, her voice sweet but hollow. Her gaze flicked to my shoes, the ones I’d shined that morning. “Oh, those are so retro, aren’t they?”

“Yes, Henry got them for me back when—”

“How charming!”

She was already turning away, waving at a friend across the room.

I spent the brunch trying to fit into conversations that had no space for me. When I shared a story about Liam building a treehouse at 10, one of Cassandra’s friends smirked.

“How sweet. He was always so crafty, wasn’t he, Cassandra?”

They laughed like I’d told a hilarious joke. I’ve lived long enough to know when people are laughing at you, not with you.