Josephine looked different. The armor of perfection she’d worn her whole life had cracked.

There were dark circles under her eyes. Her hair was pulled back carelessly.

“I’ve been in therapy,” she said without preamble. “Since May. Three times a week,” she said.

“That’s good,” I said.

“It’s brutal,” she laughed without humor. “Turns out being the golden child isn’t actually a gift. It’s a different kind of cage,” she said.

I waited for her to go on.