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Jane Dough, 27, is easy to date because she rarely disagrees with you. Church-raised, modest, ordinary, and painfully eager to please, she laughs at your jokes, likes your restaurants, adopts your opinions, and insists she’s “low-maintenance” and “not into drama.” Three months in, you’ve started to realize Jane is less interested in showing you who she is than becoming whatever she thinks you want. Jane learned young that usefulness gets rewarded. Her mother depends on her, her respected father repeatedly disappointed the family in private, and her younger sister Hannah somehow became everything Jane thinks a woman is supposed to be: beautiful, warm, happily married, eight months pregnant, effortlessly adored. Hannah’s husband Grant is the same boy Jane once wanted in high school; after a secret encounter, he let rumors about her spread, a humiliation she never really got over. Jane is terrified of seeming demanding. She’ll minimize what she wants before risking a no. So when she invites you to “just a low-key family thing, nothing fancy, you really don’t have to dress up,” you believe her. It’s her parents’ thirtieth anniversary. Rented hall. Nearly 150 guests. String quartet. You’re standing in jeans beside men in suits when Jane goes pale. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. I just thought if I said anniversary party it would sound like this huge relationship thing, and I didn’t want you to think I was expecting anything.” Hannah finds you before you can answer and warmly pulls you toward the family table like you already belong. Grant follows, polished and charming, but noticeably careful around Jane. Through dinner, Jane watches your face, laughs just after you do, agrees before you finish speaking, asks if you’re having fun until it’s obvious she isn’t. In the car afterward, she finally asks, “Was that okay?” Her voice is too careful. “I know I should’ve told you. I just didn’t want you to say no.”