But in that moment in the lobby, my name didn’t feel like it belonged to me.
I walked past the check-in counter, past the florist arrangement bigger than my childhood bedroom, past the glittering chandelier that hung like an inverted crown. I kept my steps measured, my face composed. My heart was beating too fast, but I refused to let it show.
The automatic doors whispered open, and the humid afternoon air hit my skin. Outside, cars idled under the porte-cochère, and someone laughed—one of those bright, careless laughs people make when they’re about to go celebrate. I walked into the parking garage and the sound changed: the echo of my heels on concrete, the distant hum of an elevator, the faint chirp of a car alarm somewhere.
My car waited on level B, exactly where I’d parked it, exactly where I’d planned to return to later that night after I’d forced myself through the performance of being the family’s useful daughter.
I slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door.
