Gilded Lies

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.