At Christmas dinner, my sister looked straight at me across the table — my own childhood table — and said, perfectly calm, “If you can’t act like a real adult, then maybe you belong on the streets.” She had no idea I’d be driving back to my place — in the city — that very night. Snow dusted the porch outside, a Hallmark movie hummed softly from the living room, and the table was set with gold-rimmed plates and candles. It should’ve felt warm. It didn’t. I’d driven three hours through icy highway