For a fraction of a second, my chest tightened.

It was almost identical to the plate from that fateful night, the same gleaming white porcelain, the same emptiness, set down in front of me at a table laden with food.

Paula, who knew the whole story, noticed my reaction at once.

“Mariana?

Are you okay?” And I looked down at that empty plate, and then I looked around the room, and I understood the difference, the entire difference, the distance I had traveled.

No one at this table was mocking me.