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My bed occupied the far corner behind an open shelving unit filled with folded fabric, woven baskets, and trailing plants. A cream quilt covered the iron frame, layered with pillows in washed-out florals and soft blue ticking stripes. The couch sat close enough to the old radiator that one cushion became unbearably warm whenever the ancient system decided to work, but its pale linen upholstery looked beautiful against the dark brick, and I found the carved wooden coffee table at a street market for twenty dollars after convincing the seller that one missing drawer lowered its historical value.

Books filled every remaining space. They climbed the tall shelves beside my bed, sat in uneven stacks beneath the windows, and crowded the narrow ledge behind the couch. I found most of them in thrift stores, library sales, outdoor markets, and tiny used bookstores where nobody cared how long I stood reading the first page. Some had cracked spines and handwritten names inside their covers. Others still held receipts, pressed flowers, or notes left behind by people I would never meet. Building the collection one book at a time made each discovery feel personal, as though I wasn’t merely buying someone else’s discarded copy. I was giving it another home.

My drafting table claimed most of the wall overlooking the street, crowded with sketches, swatches, thread, two coffee cups, and the final alterations list for Bliss’s wedding dress. The loft was small, imperfect, and entirely mine. Every color, texture, book, and salvaged piece of furniture had been chosen because I loved it, without considering whether Lance would find it elegant enough or my mother would suggest something more refined. I hadn’t decorated the life I was expected to live. I’d built a home around the woman I had finally allowed myself to become.

Downstairs, my boutique occupied the first floor.

The front section held finished pieces and carefully selected vintage clothing. Three fitting rooms lined one wall, and my workroom filled the back with sewing machines, dress forms, shipping supplies, and enough fabric to bury a human body if the theater department changed one more costume deadline without consulting me.

Most of my business happened online. A stylist with a large following wore one of my reconstructed jackets in a TikTok video seven months ago, and the orders hadn’t stopped growing since. Some weeks were terrifying. Others were merely exhausting. I’d hired a KFU fashion student to help package shipments three afternoons a week, and last month I paid her without transferring money from my savings to cover payroll.

I took a picture of the soup and cake and sent it to my mother.

Charm: Signed everything. The building and business officially belong to me. Your tyrannical two percent remains untouched.

Her response arrived before I set the phone down.

Mom: I am an extremely powerful minority shareholder. You should be nicer to me.

Charm: You’ll be bought out within eighteen months.

Mom: Lance always said you inherited my business instincts.

I laughed.

Charm: Lance says I inherited everything good from him.

Three dots appeared, disappeared, then returned.

Mom: Your father has always struggled with math.

The laugh escaped loudly enough to fill the entire loft. My mother had become funny. Either therapy performed miracles, or she’d spent thirty years hiding an excellent personality beneath coordinated cardigans and Lance’s expectations.

Mom: Eat while it’s hot. I love you, sweetheart. I am so proud of you.

The words still landed in tender places.

For most of my life, pride came attached to an accomplishment. Grades, awards, performances, and appearance. The correct dress at the correct dinner while speaking to the correct people in precisely the way Lance expected.

My mother had started telling me she was proud when I rested, maintained a boundary, ate dinner despite the discomfort, or admitted I was frightened and moved forward anyway. She was learning to celebrate the choices that kept me healthy instead of waiting for an accomplishment she could show someone else. I held the phone between both hands while the warmth of her message settled into me.

Charm: I love you too.

The first spoonful of soup was hot enough to burn my tongue. I swallowed quickly, drank water, and looked toward the kitchen as though someone else might be responsible for my impatience.

Nobody was.

I took another bite after blowing across it.

The soup was my favorite. It had always been my favorite, though for several years I pretended otherwise because cream, cheese, and butter turned pleasure into arithmetic before the food ever reached my mouth. I knew how many calories were in every ingredient. I knew how long I would need to exercise to erase a bowl and how many meals I could skip the following day to make the number feel less dangerous.

By the end, I could calculate punishment faster than taste.

My eating disorder had never been delicate. There was nothing polished or controlled about it, regardless of how carefully I concealed the evidence beneath tailored clothes and socially acceptable excuses.

I starved myself because starvation felt simpler than eating. I used diet pills and stimulant-based appetite suppressants until my heart raced while I sat still. I bought tirzepatide injections from someone who had no business selling them and injected myself without knowing whether the medication was real, contaminated, expired, or measured correctly. When fear, hunger, and exhaustion became difficult to outrun, I took more stimulants because the artificial energy let me keep moving while my body begged me to stop.

Once, during the worst of it, I tried cocaine.