LAVENDER POV
I learn who I am supposed to be from a headline, not from Alex, not from Margaret, not even from Laura Robinson’s cold, precise threats. From a glowing screen held too tightly in Aunt Tracy’s hands.
She doesn’t mean for me to see it. I know that the second her shoulders stiffen, the second she turns the phone slightly away from me like a child hiding a broken glass. But the air changes. It always does when bad news arrives thicker, heavier, as if it needs more space than the truth ever does.
“What is it?” I ask. My voice sounds far away, detached, like it belongs to someone who hasn’t learned yet how easily things can collapse.
Aunt Tracy hesitates. Too long.
“Lav,” she says carefully, “maybe you should sit down.”
The room tilts before I do.
“I’m already sitting,” I rep
