I paid for my parents to fly out and see me for the first time in four years. They stayed at my sister’s house 30 minutes away. I set the table every night for a week. They never came. On their last day, Mom texted: “Maybe next time, sweetie!” I was the bank. Not the daughter. So I shut it down.

and a bottle of bourbon. She took one look at the set table—the candles now halfway to the silver—and her expression shifted from pity to a cold, focused rage.

“Sophia,” she said, her voice a low vibration. “This isn’t a dinner party anymore. This looks like a memorial service.”

I tried to laugh, but it came out as a ragged sob. We sat at the table and continue reading …