The ceiling fan’s blades whir incessantly above my head as I laid in the well-appointed, name brand den at her house.

The true crime cop show was on, and she stared, blue eyes transfixed to the 60-inch screen, and as the youngest, who for the longest believed that must have been adopted, I could not hold my tone any longer. I turned to her as she laughed and made a derogatory comment about the hysterical forty-something year old woman being arrested for prostitution.

“You know there’s a story behind that we’ll never hear about.”

She sipped her prosecco from the tall crystal flute, careful not to spill a drop. I tried again to make a connection to unearth the small grain of earth or compassion, greater clarity or empathy.

“There’s a lifetime of trauma in pain that she’s experienced.”

She refilled the crystal flute, and continued to sip in silence.