The silence in the living room is thick, weighted—not with tension, but with a kind of comfort I don't feel.
The wine glass rests in my father's hand, catching the low golden light of the chandelier above us. He swirls it slowly—a habit worn smooth by years of repetition—watching the deep red liquid cling to the crystal before sliding back down in lazy, deliberate waves.
I sit beside him, my posture rigid, my face a carefully constructed mask of calm that I've perfected over years of practice.
But beneath that mask, beneath the stillness of my hands and the steadiness of my breath, my stomach churns. The dinner I forced myself to swallow sits heavy and rebellious, twisting with every slow inhale. I can feel the nausea curling at the edges of my control, patient and relentless, waiting for the moment I slip.
Dad's voice breaks the quiet, low and unhurried, like he's been sitting on these words for a while.
"It's surprising..."
