By the time dessert arrived, Leah Brooks had already been humiliated three times.

The first came when Raymond Dalton asked if she was “still doing that little freelance computer thing,” loud enough for everyone at the table to hear. The second followed when he chuckled and added, “Must be nice to call unemployment a career path.” The third landed when her mother Denise offered a tight smile and told Leah not to be sensitive because Raymond was just joking.

Everyone laughed anyway.

It was meant to be a celebration dinner. Raymond had married Denise six weeks earlier, and this was the first large family gathering at their new house in suburban Atlanta. Denise had arranged the dining room with cream candles and fresh hydrangeas, the kind of careful staging that suggested she believed the right décor could organize people into something elegant and harmless. Raymond sat at the head of the table as though he had always owned the place. Denise sat beside him, glowing with the brittle happiness Leah had learned not to trust.