Eleni pulls my hair hard enough to bring tears to my eyes, and the moment breaks.
“Sorry, sorry.” Maya takes her back. “She’s entering the hair-pulling phase.”
“It’s fine.” I’m not fine. But I smile anyway.
Sofia is watching me. Has been watching me this whole time, I realize. Those mother’s eyes that see everything.
She doesn’t say anything. Just makes the sign of the cross. Mutters something in Greek.
A prayer. A protection spell. Whatever grandmothers do when they know something’s wrong but can’t name it.
My mom is watching too. Her English teacher face. The one that means she’s reading subtext.
Both mothers know.
But they won’t ask. Not here. Not now. Not in front of everyone.
They’ll wait.
And I’ll have to lie to them too.
Dessert disappears. Coffee appears. Strong Greek coffee that Dimitri makes himself in the copperbriki. Two cups—mine and Alex’s—with just the right amount of sugar.
Dimitri sets the coffee in front of me. Perfect temperature. Perfect sweetness. Exactly how I’ve taken it for fifteen years.
“You remembered,” I say stupidly.
“Of course I remembered.” He looks almost hurt. “You’re my daughter. I remember.”
Not his daughter. Not really. But he’s claimed me anyway.
The way I wish I could claim Dahlia. Give her a name. A story. Proof she mattered.
The conversation shifts. Flows. Multiple threads weaving together.
Dimitri is talking to Nikko about restaurant business. Sofia and my mom are planning something—a church event, maybe. Maya is trying to feed Eleni tiny bites of baklava. Alex is laughing at something Nikko said.
And I’m sitting here, trying to memorize it all.
The way candlelight catches in Alex’s hair. The sound of Dimitri’s laugh—deep and booming. Sofia’s hands moving as she talks. My mom’s smile—real, not worried for once. The weight of the baby on Maya’s lap. Nikko’s chef’s hands, scarred and strong.
This family. This warmth. This safety.
Everything we’re risking.
A blonde woman walks past our table.
Long hair. Black dress.
My heart stops.
The fork slips from my hand. Clatters against the plate. Too loud.
Everyone looks at me.
“Sorry,” I manage. “I—sorry.”
But I can’t stop staring at her. At the blonde woman. At the black dress. At the way she moves through the restaurant like she’s walking through that alley in my dream.
