Quinn can feel my pause, my momentary inability to respond. Still, he persists. “And besides, you have supporters. People who think you’ve been unfairly trampled by the media. I wouldn’t say you’re a trending hashtag or anything, but from what I’ve seen, it’s far from unheard-of to have sympathy for you. You are a victim in all of this, too.”

I close my eyes. Open them. “Do I have a fan page?” I ask wryly, and Quinn cracks a smile.

“Not quite, but we could probably make it happen.” He finally takes a sip of his latte. “But seriously. I really don’t think the family is out to get you. They’re decent people who had the worst possible thing imaginable happen to them. And they understand that, in your own terms, this is the worst possible thing that’s happened to you as well, even if it doesn’t come close to losing a daughter, a sister. I took a photo of the invite, by the way. So even though you threw it away, we still have the information.”

I lean back in my chair, almost tip it. “I’ll think about it, okay?” And he nods, knowing that that’s the best he’s going to get for today. “Hamano is going to shit herself. Imagine if she had opened my mail instead of you? She would totally be showing up at this thing, ogling the family, Instagram-living the entire ceremony.”

Quinn laughs. “God, I missed you.”

When I get to my mom’s later that evening, I have the house to myself. I’d called a cab to pick me up from the train station, and the respite from having her in my hair is more calming than I could have imagined.

I sideline all her weird vegan products and boil some pasta for dinner, dousing it with butter and parmesan before taking it up to my room.

This is my usual schedule, since Mom eats way too late for me and I refuse to share the charred cauliflower and bean puree dishes she is always pushing on me. I would eat at the table, but that just gives her more time to nudge me, to berate me and then to talk about herself, to compare some small conflict she has with my own endless inner discord.

My meeting with Huda seems like a week ago now and as I nibble my food, staring at the wall, at the swan lamp with the entwined necks and the chipped eye, there’s the deep, jabbing reminder that I’m back at square one. No one is giving me my job back. No one is giving me my life back.