The dinner table buzzed with the gentle rhythm of evening routines—forks tapping plates, soft conversation, and Amelia humming tunelessly between bites. The scent of garlic bread hung in the air, and melted cheese clung to little fingers and napkins that had already given up.
The twins sat across from their parents, plates full, cheeks flushed from a day spent in the sun. They chattered about recess, their teacher’s “serious voice,” and how Elliott had tried to jump off the swings and landed on his butt.
Isabelle sat beside Sebastian, not touching, not speaking much—just present. The kind of presence that felt like survival, not ease. Since his return, things had been civil. Careful. Polite.
But never comfortable.
There was too much history in the air. Too many unspoken things that hov
