Chapter 92

The dining room is chaotic. Plates clatter, wine glasses clink, and everyone is shouting over each other. My dad is seated at the head of the table. He’s holding court as usual, recounting some wild story that I’m sure gets more exaggerated with every telling. At a point between stories, he leans over, his eyes twinkling. “So, Julie, tell me—how does my son behave in the big city? Still the same little troublemaker?” Julie smirks. “Oh, he’s very well-behaved. When he’s asleep.” The entire table erupts in laughter, and I shake my head. “Traitor.” “Back in the day,” my dad says. “Lucas was a terror. Always climbing trees, sneaking out—one time, he got stuck on the roof, and we had to call the fire department to get him down!” Julie turns to me. “Really?” “I was eight.” “You were twelve,” my dad corrects. Julie’s laughter is infectious, and I find myself relaxing, letting the warmth of the room and the chatter wash over me. She’s handling my family better than I expected, even if she’s st