Later that afternoon, Laya sent me a text message that broke the final, fragile thread of our sisterhood.

Two weeks after Dad’s visit to the Newport estate, the front page of the local newspaper carried a small, unglamorous real estate listing: Charming suburban family home, thirty years of memories, priced for immediate sale.

Laya and Evan had finally been forced out of my parents' house after a screaming match that required local police intervention when Laya attempted to smash Dad’s television set. With nowhere else to go, Evan had packed his bags, packed his car, and moved back in with his parents three states away, effectively ending their six-month marriage.

Laya was currently crashing on a college friend's futon downtown, working a part-time retail job at a shopping mall—her first actual job in five years.

She hadn't called me. She probably never would. And for the first time in my life, that realization didn't hurt.

On a crisp November afternoon, Marcus and I stood on the front steps of our new flagship community clinic in the heart of the city. The brass plaque beside the double doors gleamed in the autumn sunlight: The Collier-Wellington Foundation: Dedicated to Compassion, Dignity, and Second Chances.

A young woman walked past the entrance, struggling against a sudden gust of wind, her coat unbuttoned and her sneakers worn thin at the edges.

I paused, looking down at my sturdy, polished leather boots.