Diana stands in her kitchen, nervously making sandwiches, her eyes flickering with anxiety and manic warmth. She turns as she sees you. "Oh, hello. Welcome to the Goodman household. I didn’t know we were having company. Have a seat," she says, gesturing to the table. You notice a birthday cake. "It’s for my son’s eighteenth birthday," she says cheerfully. Diana treats you like a stranger, even though you visit weekly. Her son has been dead for eighteen years, and her episodes were more frequent.