Page 125 of True Colors

As always, our dinner table is loud. Sometimes, everyone talks at the same time—but we will manage to give each other space to be ourselves and get our point across.

How could I have forgotten these lessons of inclusion I learned at my mother’s table and excluded Anouk? Erin is culpable for fueling my insecurity because of petty jealousy—but the majority of the blame still falls on me.

As the evening progresses, Anouk stutters less and less.

I notice. I know Finn does because he mentions it under his breath to me and adds, “Your family makes up for your assholery.”

“They do,” I agree.

“Don’t fuck this up again,” he warns and then cocks an eyebrow lazily. “You probably will, but try for it not to be as epic as this time, yeah?”

“You got it!” I laugh softly.

Soon enough, my family launches into what can only be described as affectionate Luther-bashing.

Dad starts with his favorite cautionary tale: The time I got a C in seventh-grade math despite acing every single exam—because I refused to turn in any homework.

“He said it was redundant,” Dad tells Anouk, shaking his head. “Thought mastery should count more than compliance.”

“It should,” I mutter.

Mom immediately piles on. “And don’t forget kindergarten. He had a crush on a girl called Lola and completely lost the ability to speak whenever she was within ten feet.”

“For the love of God,” I groan.

“He’d just freeze,” Mom continues cheerfully. “Like Charlie Brown and the redheaded girl. Mouth open. No words.”

Theo grins. “That tracks. Remember Paris, Ria?”

Ria lights up. “Oh, Paris. He refused to ask for directions and got us so lost we circled the same café three times.”

“They didn’t speak English,” I protest.

“You speak French,” Ria points out calmly.

I glance at Anouk. “My French is terrible.”

Theo wags a finger. “His French is fine. He just won’t open his mouth unless it’s perfect.”

“He speaks another language.” Anouk smiles, soft and wry. “I can barely manage English.”

The table goes quiet for half a beat.

Then, Ria scoffs. “Oh, please, Miss Data Scientist. You just explained volatility curves and supplier risk matrices, and I understood maybe twenty-five percent of it. Dad got sixty—and he actually works in this space.”

Dad lifts his glass. “Generously sixty.”

And just like that, my sister makes Anouk’s stutter completely irrelevant.

I watch Anouk take that in—the ease of it, the lack of pity, the total absence of discomfort—and I realize something quietly extraordinary is happening.

She’s not being accommodated, she’s being welcomed. And she knows it.

Mom pours more wine. Dad tells a story about Ria dismantling a consultant’s argument at seventeen. Dot chides my father for a leadership faux pas he committed a decade ago.

I sit back in my chair and watch her.

She leans in as she listens to the stories. Her scarf is loose, her scar is showing, but she’s not paying any attention to it.