My great-aunt in Dayton texted me a prayer-hands emoji and the words: “Please don’t tear this beautiful family apart over a silly misunderstanding, honey.”

A woman I’d babysat for a decade earlier stopped me at the grocery store, gripped my forearm near the register, and loudly announced she was “praying for my whole… situation,” inserting a dramatic pause before the word, handling it like dirty laundry with tongs.

That’s how it works in a town where your mother sells every wedding dress within thirty miles.

Her version got custom-fitted, and mine stood there lonely, off the rack.

I want you to know exactly what I did about it, because it’s the part I’m proudest of.

I did nothing loud.