My phone buzzed four times against the fake-wood table before I reached past my paper coffee cup to pick it up.

Fourteen unread texts sat on the glowing screen, all from Linda, sent between midnight and six in the morning.

The first ten messages listed my faults in sharp, relentless wording.

She wrote that I had abandoned a peaceful family home, taken household items without permission, and embarrassed her son in front of the whole neighborhood on Elm Street.

Then the timestamps jumped to six fifteen in the morning, and the tone changed completely.

“Camila, please disregard my previous messages,” the eleventh one read.