The Gilded Lies

The limousine door clicked open, and I froze at the curb ofRochelle's Upper East Side townhouse. My oversized tote bagfelt almost comically small compared to the vastness of herworld, but she'd insisted-warmly, sweetly-that I come staywith her and her son. "Johnnika, it'll be fun!" she'd said overFaceTime. I wanted to believe her. I wanted comfort. I wantedfamily.The brownstone gleamed in the late afternoon sun: cream-colored stone, polished brass handles, and a single red rosebush perfectly pruned in the front yard. Everything screamedperfection. Even the faint hum of a Rolls-Royce Phantom idlingnearby fit seamlessly into the scene. Inside, the scent of freshlybaked croissants from Bouchon Bakery mingled with the subtleperfume of Chanel No.5, lingering in the grand foyer.