Sunlight streams through the bay windows of my parents’ formal dining room, catching on crystal glasses like tiny prisms. The familiar weight of tradition settles over me as I adjust the burgundy linen napkin on my lap, breathing in the rich aroma of Mom’s pot roast. Dad stands at the head of the polished mahogany table, carving the meat with practiced precision, each slice falling perfectly onto the Wedgwood china he reserves for Sunday gatherings.

“Just a small piece for me, Dad,” I say, watching as he ignores my request and places a generous portion on my plate anyway. “You’re too thin, Gabrielle,” he says without looking up. “Always have been.”

I’m about to remind him that at thirty-eight, I’m perfectly capable of determining my own portion sizes when the front door bursts open.

The peaceful tableau shatters as my sister Vanessa sweeps in with her husband, Mark, and their three children. Instantly, the dining room fills with noise—backpacks dropping, children arguing over seats, Mark’s heavy footsteps. “Sorry we’re late,” Vanessa announces without a hint of actual remorse.

Her eyes are bright with an unusual excitement that immediately puts me on edge. “Traffic was terrible by the outlet mall.”

“You went shopping before Sunday dinner?” I ask, but my question drowns beneath Mom’s enthusiastic greeting of her grandchildren. Dad catches Vanessa’s eye and nods slightly, a silent exchange that tightens something in my chest.

I recognize that look, the conspiratorial glance they’ve shared since we were kids, usually right before I discovered I was the only one not included in some family plan. “Well, we’re all here now,” Mom says, patting the table. “Charles, finish serving so we can eat while it’s hot.”

We settle into the familiar rhythm of passing dishes and making small talk.

Mom asks about my latest architectural project. Dad quizzes Mark about the stock market. The children intermittently whine about the vegetables on their plates.

“So,” Vanessa says suddenly, her voice rising above the dining room chatter, “we’re moving into your lake house next week. We’ve got some foundation issues with our place.”

My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. “What?”

“It’s just sitting empty anyway, Gabrielle,” Dad says, his tone casual but his eyes watchful.