Alessia
The Young family dinner table was a stage of expectations, postures, and unspoken tension. Every time we gathered here, the air seemed to vibrate with a strange combination of unity and division. Tonight was no different.
The chandelier above cast a golden glow over the room, reflecting off the polished surfaces of the table and the sparkling crystal glasses. My father, Andrew Young, sat at the head of the table, as imposing as ever. To his left was my stepmother, Francesca, her perfectly coiffed hair and red lips making her look like she belonged on the cover of a magazine. My elder brother Nathalian, always too serious, sat beside her, quietly slicing into his steak. Across from him was Sebastian, the youngest and most unpredictable of us all, his expression a mix of boredom a
