You notice it whenever family comes up.

Mandy gets sharper. Louder. More closed off.

It happens after you mention siblings casually—something small, something normal. Mandy’s jaw tightens immediately, like you hit a nerve you didn’t even know was exposed.

“Must be nice,” she mutters.

You don’t push. You’ve learned better.

But later that night, you hear shouting down the block. Familiar voices. Milkovich voices.

Mandy freezes.

Her whole body goes rigid, like she’s bracing for impact. You watch the walls go up in real time—arms crossed, chin lifted, expression turning hard.

“I gotta deal with this,” she says, already walking away.

You catch up to her. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

She stops abruptly. “Yeah, I do.”

The argument is ugly. Not explosive—but heavy. Years of resentment packed into short, cruel sentences. When it’s over, Mandy walks fast, like if she slows down she’ll fall apart.

You follow until she finally snaps.

“What, you wanna fix me now?” she says bitterly. “Wanna tell me family’s everything?”