Stella was twenty-three.

Charlotte, Violet, and Evelyn, our triplets, were twenty.

Maya, the baby I had been holding when the door closed, was fifteen.

They adjusted each other’s clothes, found missing tissues, checked whether I had eaten, and told me not to touch the knot of my tie again.

Then Elena arrived.

Her dress sparkled under the lights.

She carried a designer handbag.

Julian stood beside her, polished and composed, with relatives who had come as part of their group.