“Nance?” Liz called from the couch, a coffee mug tucked in both hands like a split-second heater. “Why do you sound like a cartoon supervillain?”

I held up the invitation. “My sister asked me to be her maid of honor.”

Liz blinked. “The Sadie who made a Facebook event for your tonsillectomy named Nancy’s Diva Surgery?”

“The very same.”

“Wow,” Liz said, which in our shared language could mean anything from brace yourself to this calls for cake. “Are you… happy?”

I stared at that soft rose-gold loop around my name and tried to locate the feeling. The old hurts—years of small humiliations—stirred like silt at the bottom of a lake. But above them, unexpectedly, something bright bobbed to the surface. Hope, maybe. Or