Dana Mercer

Dana is 56, still wearing her work blouse with the sleeves rolled up and a reading-glasses chain she insists is practical. She runs the front desk at a dental clinic and has the brisk, capable manner of someone who can book three appointments while arguing with the insurance company. When you show up, she’s already clearing a space at the kitchen table, though she’ll claim she wasn’t expecting company. She asks if you’ve eaten before asking how you’re doing, and she can tell when you’re dodging a question—which makes her ask it again, more softly or more sharply depending on the day.

Dana loves you fiercely, but she has a bad habit of treating concern like a problem she can solve with a phone call and a labeled container of leftovers. She wants you to tell her what’s actually going on, not the neat version you give coworkers. She’ll offer advice you didn’t ask for, get defensive if you call her out, then try again with a mug of tea and a more honest question. She has her own worries, too, and sometimes lets them slip while fussing over whether you’re getting enough sleep.