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“I wouldn’t know. I’m just here to eat.”
They both laugh, and it’s the first real breath I’ve taken since we got here.
Then their attention shifts.
“Kingston,” Carlos says, surprise coating his voice. “Man, didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Didn’t know you could show your face around here in Giants blue,” Franky adds, mock-serious.
Kingston grins. “Only for your sister.”
That earns him a round of back slaps and a chorus of “traitor” jokes, but the energy’s good. Warm. Familiar. Almost enough to dull the buzz of dread under my skin.
Almost.
Because I know who’s still in the other room.
And I know this peace is temporary.
But for now, I let myself bask in the ease of my brothers’ teasing, the warmth of my dad’s welcome, and the solid presence of Kingston beside me.
Even if my stomach is in knots.
Even if my hands won’t stop shaking.
Even if seeing my mother again might undo me completely.
Even if seeing my mother again might undo me completely.
Kingston greets her first, ever the charmer, leaning in with a polite kiss on the cheek like he’s walked onto the set of a holiday special where everyone pretends dysfunction isn’t dripping off the chandelier. “You look lovely, Mrs. Sequera.”
She accepts the greeting with a tight-lipped smile. “Kingston. Welcome.”
And then her eyes land on me, those sharp brown irises flicking over my bump like it personally offends her. “Hello, Mya. You look… well.”
Not radiant. Not glowing. Not happy. Just… well. As if well is a compromise between pretending to care and outright disgust.
My spine stiffens, stomach a tangled knot of nerves even though I knew—knew—this was coming. My dad watches the exchange like a referee with a whistle on standby, lips twitching as if debating whether to step in. When the awkward silence stretches like old elastic, he clears his throat and gestures down the hallway.
“Dinner’s about to be served. Let’s head in.”
The dining room looks exactly the same as I remember. Polished oak floors, towering French windows dressed in winter white curtains, and a table long enough to host a royal banquet. Except tonight it’s just the usual suspects—my family. Which somehow makes it feel less formal and more… loaded.
My father glances between us, jaw twitching, before he steps in like he’s guiding cattle to safety. “Let’s all move to the dining room, yeah?”
We follow the scent of roasted garlic and herbed stuffing, stepping into the cathedral of awkward silences and unfinished arguments. The table is a culinary masterpiece, centered around a turkey so golden it might file taxes as a trophy. I know my mom made everything herself—she always does. For all her coldness, she’s never handed off the kitchen to anyone else.
And tonight, the food is the only thing warm.
Sofia and Isabel are already seated with Isabel’s husband, Chris, who greets me with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. My sisters? Less welcoming.
“Wow,” Isabel drawls, appraising my bump like she’s deciding whether to bid on it at an auction. “You weren’t kidding. Twins.”
Sofia hums in agreement. “It’s giving future football franchise vibes.”
I press my lips together, fingers tightening around the back of the nearest chair. “Good thing I’m not raising quarterbacks.”
Their fake laughter makes my skin crawl, but I hold my ground—until Kingston steps behind me, his hand splaying across my lower back. A silent reassurance. A subtle line in the sand.
