My name is Diane Caldwell. I am thirty years old, I reside in a quiet corner of Seattle, and on the night my younger sister was married, I learned two absolute truths about human nature.
First: Humiliation has a distinct auditory signature. It isn’t the collective gasp of a crowd, nor is it the raucous peel of laughter. It is the tiny, razor-sharp silence that detonates inside your own skull the moment you realize you have ceased to be a person and have instead become entertainment.
