Page 58

We take our seats. The plates are filled. The conversation begins safe—football, weather, holiday plans. Then, like always, someone opens a door better left shut.

“I still can’t believe you’re having babies before getting married,” Isabel remarks mid-bite, like the sentence isn’t dipped in acid. “But I guess standards have… shifted.”

My fork freezes. The twins squirm in protest as my pulse spikes.

Sofia joins in, her smile saccharine. “I mean, I get it. Not everyone needs a ring to feel validated.”

My mother says nothing. Not a word. Just passes the cranberry sauce to Chris like this isn’t happening.

It’s my dad who snaps. “That’s enough.”

“Oh please,” Isabel scoffs. “Of course you’d defend her. She’s always been your favorite.”

“She’s pregnant,” he says tightly. “And we are having dinner, not a public shaming.”

Carlos chimes in. “Seriously, leave her alone.”

“Why?” Sofia shrugs. “She obviously doesn’t care what people think.”

They don’t stop. They never stop.

And for once, I don’t have a comeback.

Not because I’m weak. But because I’m exhausted. Because I’m pregnant and hormonal and all I want is to eat in peace without being dissected like a frog in a freshman bio lab.

Then Kingston leans in.

“We can leave at any time,” he whispers, voice a velvet anchor. His hand finds mine beneath the table and squeezes, solid and warm.

But Isabel just won’t quit.

“I just think it’s interesting,” she adds, reaching for her wine, “that Mya gets a standing ovation for making all the same mistakes we would’ve been crucified for.”

I flinch. The words dig in deep, old wounds screaming under new skin.

Then Kingston clears his throat and stands.

“Mya,” he says softly. “We’re leaving.”

“What?” my father frowns. “Let’s just cool down⁠—”

“I said,” Kingston repeats, calm but steel-spined, “we’re leaving.”

Carlos and Franky rise too, voices raised now, defending me while Isabel and Sofia shout over them. My mother finally speaks up—shocking the whole table.

“That’s enough,” she snaps. “This isn’t good for Mya. She’s pregnant, for God’s sake.”

The silence that follows is so loud it’s deafening.

But it doesn’t matter. The damage is done.

Kingston takes my hand and helps me up. My chair scrapes against the floor like a gunshot.

“Thank you for the food, Mrs. Sequera,” he says, perfectly polite. “And thank you for having us, sir.”

Then he walks me out the same way he walked me in—shoulders square, grip steady, like a man who’s done being polite to people who don’t deserve my presence.

We don’t say anything until we’re back in the car. My throat is raw. My heart aches in ways I can’t name.