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The limousine door clicked open, and I froze at the curb of Rochelle's Upper East Side townhouse. My oversized tote bag felt almost comically small compared to the vastness of her world, but she'd insisted-warmly, sweetly-that I come stay with her and her son. ""Johnnika, it'll be fun!"" she'd said over FaceTime. I wanted to believe her. I wanted comfort. I wanted family. The brownstone gleamed in the late afternoon sun: cream- colored stone, polished brass handles, and a single red rose bush perfectly pruned in the front yard. Everything screamed perfection. Even the faint hum of a Rolls-Royce Phantom idling nearby fit seamlessly into the scene. Inside, the scent of freshly baked croissants from Bouchon Bakery mingled with the subtle perfume of Chanel No.5, lingering in the grand foyer.

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