I went downstairs later, not because I was thirsty, but because my chest felt too tight to breathe upstairs. The walls had begun to feel close, heavy with thoughts I couldn’t quiet. I told myself water would help, that the simple act of holding a glass, of swallowing something cold, might ground me back into my body.

The living room lights were on. The television was on. And before I even stepped fully into the space, I felt it—the weight in the air, thick and uneasy.

My mother stood near ...