Julian pushed the door open and flipped on the light. Rosalind bolted upright in bed, hair flat, eyes puffy, blinking against the sudden brightness, still deep in sleep at 5:30 in the morning. Before she could speak, Julian lifted his phone and took her picture, exactly the way she had taken mine. The click of the shutter froze the whole room. His mother’s mouth fell open. She looked from him to me, then down at herself, tangled in blankets, caught in the precise position she had publicly mocked me for.

“Julian!” she gasped. “What are you doing in my house? Put that away!” He lowered the phone but did not delete anything. “Now you know how it feels, Mom,” he said, his voice calm and even. “To be photographed in bed by family who let themselves in with an emergency key. To have no warning, no say, no dignity.” Rosalind’s face went from pale shock to a deep, furious red. And that was when Julian told her exactly what came next.