Episode 32

The drive to the restaurant was a silent one. Dad’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and Mom kept her gaze fixed on the passing streetlights, her lips pressed into a thin, worried line. I, for my part, felt a knot of dread tightening in my stomach, a visceral echo of the tension I’d overheard from the landing. The polite diplomat act was over, and the raw fury that had flared between my father and the emissary still hung heavy in the air.

We were seated at our usual corner booth at "The Italian Garden," the red-and-white checkered tablecloth a stark contrast to the dark mood that had enveloped us. The waiter, a familiar face, approached with menus, his usual cheerful demeanor slightly strained. He took our orders with a practiced efficiency, but I caught his eye lingering on my father for a fraction of a second too long. Everyone knew something was amiss.

As the appetizers arrived, Dad cleared his throat, his voice rougher than usual. "Emily," he began, his gaze finally meeting mine, "I know you heard some things earlier. Things that must have been very confusing."