At my table, three distant cousins treated me like a scandalous myth suddenly made flesh. Petra, in an overly tight sequin gown, offered a strained smile.

“Maren. We weren’t sure you’d actually show up.”

“Neither was I,” I said, unfolding my napkin.

Her husband, Cole, focused on buttering a roll, avoiding eye contact. Their twenty-something daughter, Sloane, leaned across the table with unearned familiarity.

“So where have you been hiding all these years?”

Petra hissed her name under her breath.