Dinner at the Prescotts’ was nothing like the ones at my house.At home, dinner meant takeout cartons, my dad’s loud laugh, and my mom complaining that I ate too much chicken. Here, it felt like a museum — quiet, stiff, every clink of silverware echoing off the walls like it was being judged.

Mary Prescott sat at the head of the table like a queen bored with her kingdom, her nails clicking against her wine glass. Victoria sat across from me, her golden hair shining like she’d rehearsed ...