Nevara
Dinner had already slipped into the kind of happy disorder that only seems possible in a family when everyone has talked over each other long enough to stop caring who technically has the floor.
My mother was trying—with limited success—to convince Noah that something green had to cross his plate before he could have more bread, while Jonas had launched a full legal defense arguing carrots should count as dessert because they were naturally sweet.
My father, rather than help, was actively encouraging debate.
“By that logic,” he said gravely, “pumpkin pie is basically salad.”
Jonas looked vindicated.
I buried a laugh in my wine.
After the week we had endured, the sheer normalcy of it felt almost unreal.
Like stepping for a moment into a life untouched by conspiracies, grief,
