Mara
Lucian handed my parents the bottle of wine with a polite smile.
My mother turned it in her hands and beamed. “Non-alcoholic. Thoughtful. I’m so happy for both of you.” She pulled Lucian into a hug, her joy radiating like sunlight.
She led us to the dining table, where a beautifully roasted turkey sat in the center surrounded by side dishes.
“Don’t worry about the roast,” she said with a playful glance. “We ordered it in. No time for the full grill treatment. We don’t have a kitchen staff like you, Mara.”
I smiled at her teasing. It felt light—for a moment.
We took our seats. My mother served the plates herself, making sure Lucian’s was stacked high. We ate in silence, the sound of cutlery filling the room until my father finally broke it.
“Is it true you’ve moved out of the Ni
