There are other happy sounds. The sound of Renn and his friends laughing, playing video games, or chugging beer on the patio. The sound of Dad’s cackling as he watches The Office reruns every day after work, even though he utters the iconic punch lines right along with Michael Scott. Loki conversing with whomever is downstairs, trying to coax them to throw him a piece of pastrami or two.

And at some point, two weeks after locking myself in my room, the idea of meeting people doesn’t seem quite as hellish as it did before. The trigger is, as always, food.

It is a sunny Saturday. Donna, Dad, and Renn are downstairs, eating breakfast. The scent of fresh sourdough bread, butter, bacon, and beans wafts around the house, making my mouth water. Normally, I wait until everyone leaves before I eat the leftovers. But today, it doesn’t feel like the end of the world to meet the woman Dad has fallen in love with if it means consuming greasy bacon and freshly squeezed orange juice.

I emerge from my room in my Cookie Monster onesie, determined to set any expectations for me low. The stairs creak as I descend them, and dread fills my gut when I think about all the looks I’m about to get.

But when I get to the landing, I see the three of them sitting around the dining table, talking animatedly. They don’t see me at first. Or maybe they’re giving me a few moments to collect myself. Donna is lean and redheaded—like Mom—with a narrow face and a gap in her front teeth. She is not as beautiful as the late Barbie Lawson, which is oddly and pettily comforting, but they both hold the same quality, of women who appear both genuinely nice and yet ooze not-to-be-messed-with vibes.

Dad is the first to notice me. He drops his fork on his plate, blinking, like he’s seeing a ghost. I can tell he has no idea what to say. Donna follows his gaze to see what’s made him freeze. Her face opens up when she sees me.

“Love that onesie,” she says, popping a piece of bacon into her mouth casually. “Where’d you get it?”

You seem to be wanting a lot of things the Lawson women have for themselves, something inside me wants to snap. But then I remind myself I have to play nice, for Dad and Renn.

“My friend Nora bought it for me. Somewhere online, I don’t know.”

She stands up. She is wearing . . . a hot dog onesie? Could that be? With ketchup and mustard and everything. A smile tugs at my lips, but I bite it down quickly. I’m not Renn. I shall not betray Mom because of a simple onesie.

“Where’d you get yours?” I ask, not exactly coldly, but definitely not conversationally.

Dad and Renn exchange looks silently. They’re smiling.