Readers discretion:

* Mentions of Homophobia

*Mentions of Religious abuse

*Description of domestic violence

ITALY is such a beautiful place.

Nonna always said it's the most underrated beauty in the world, where every inch of land tells a story older than time. She would often reminisce about the magic of her hometown, Peccioli, a small village nestled in the heart of Tuscany.

To Nonna, Peccioli wasn't just a place—it was a living, breathing piece of heaven.

The village was perched on a hill, its terracotta rooftops glowing under the golden Tuscan sun. From every angle, you could see the patchwork of farmland below—olive groves and vineyards stretching endlessly, their rows as straight and perfect as brushstrokes. Nonna described the land as if it were alive, as if the earth itself held a quiet wisdom, whispering secrets to those who listened closely.

In Peccioli, life moved slow in time. Mornings began with the toll of the church bell, its sound drifting through the cobblestone streets like a gentle reminder of faith and community. The air would be cool and filled with the mingling scents of earth and wildflowers, but as the sun rose, the aroma of something else began to take over: fresh bread baking in the ovens our family bakery.

The bakery was the soul of their little village, a humble stone building with ivy creeping up its walls and a wooden sign that read Forno di Famiglia—The Family Oven. It sat just off the bustling main square, where the cobblestone streets unfurled into a lively piazza brimming with life. From dawn, the scent of warm, yeasty bread would escape through the bakery's windows, winding its way into every corner of Peccioli.

Nonna's father, my Bisnonno, was the heart of the bakery, the master baker whose hands told the story of a lifetime spent crafting something extraordinary. Nonna often said those hands were magical, hardened by the rhythm of kneading dough yet impossibly gentle when shaping loaves with the precision of an artist.

And now, I see that same magic in Mom.

The way her hands move when she's rolling dough or shaping gnocchi—it's so deliberate, so full of care, like she's trying to hold onto a part of Bisnonno and the traditions he passed down. When Mom bakes, there's a softness to her usually focused demeanor, a quiet reverence as though she's connecting to something deeper—something rooted in love, memory, and the legacy of the family who came before her.

I love seeing this side of Mom.

I sigh softly, my chin propped in my palm, eyes fixed on the silver pot on the stove. The water inside trembles before breaking into a rolling boil, and the steam rises in delicate swirls, twisting and curling like tiny spirits before disappearing into the air.

Mom's voice drifts into the quiet, humming a melody I instantly recognize. It's an old Italian hymn, one Nonna used to sing when we spend Christmas in Boston when the house was alive with the smells of baking bread and simmering sauce. 

"Signore, tu sei il mio pastore..." Her singing fills the room, wrapping around like a lullaby meant to soothe the air itself.  As the hymn lingers, my eyes drift to her shoulders, the way they move gently in time with the melody. That's when I notice it—just a glimpse under the edge of her sleeve—a shadowy smudge of dark purple and blue, faint but undeniable.

I blink, unsure if I imagined it. Mom doesn't stop singing, her voice unwavering, and for a moment, But then she shifts, the sleeve falling back into place, and the mark disappears as if it had never been there at all.

"Grace, watch the water," Mom reminds, not giving me a glance as she slices up red onions.

"I am," I murmur, twisting my lips as my fingers graze over the edges of the photo album.

My eyes linger on the older photos of Mom's family, their sepia tones and softened edges whispering of a time I'll never truly know but can't help yearning for. The faces in the photographs seem so alive, their laughter and love somehow captured in the stillness of each frame. I trace the outlines of their smiles and gestures.

After mom pick me up from work, I came into a memory vault. Mom had her family photo albums sprawled across the living room, the pages wide open as if inviting the past to sit with us for a while. The tissue box on the coffee table was half-empty, crumpled tissues scattered around like fallen leaves. Anytime when Dad makes her upset, she pops them open.

It's therapy for her.

I couldn't help but indulge in the memories too.

It's impossible not to be drawn into the world of her family—so full of warmth, so rich with love and good spirits. They had a kind of magic that seemed to weave itself into every shared meal, every celebration, every small, stolen moment. Mom has always tried to carry that magic into our family, too, pouring her heart into every dinner, every tradition she fights to keep alive. But it's not always appreciated the way it should be. I see how it wears on her, the quiet sighs when no one notices or cares enough to say thank you.

I study the faces in the photos, mesmerized by how much of them I see in myself. My chocolate-brown hair, brown eyes and olive skin—it all comes from her side of the family, passed down like an unspoken gift. It's so clear I carry more of them with me than Rachel ever did. Rachel has Dad's sharp features and lighter complexion, and she always seemed to belong more to his world and be his favorite.

My hand pauses over a photo tucked gently into the album, worn at the edges like it's been touched a thousand times. It's of Mom,probably sixteen, standing beside a young guy in their teen years. Her gown is a soft cecil blue, flowing around her like a mermaid, and he's wearing a matching tie that makes them look like they stepped out of a romance book I usually indulge in. They're smiling at each other—this unguarded, radiant smile that lights up her whole face.

It's a smile I've never seen when she looks at Dad.

Something about the way she's gazing at him feels different. It's freeing, unburdened, as if in that moment, the world around her didn't matter. She looks... alive in a way I don't recognize, like she's been allowed to breathe in a way she hasn't in years. I can't stop staring, my chest tightening with an ache I don't fully understand.

I glance up at Mom now, catching her as she bends to slide the dough into the oven. The soft glow of the kitchen light falls across her face, and I search for even a shadow of the girl in the photo. Slowly, I lift the photo out of its place, turning it over in my hands. On the back, written in looping Italian script, are the words:

Ti amerò sempre, Bethany. Questo è stato il miglior I cento giorni di sempre. (I will always love you, Bethany. This was the best one hundred days of my life)

The name signed at the bottom feels like a breath caught in my throat: Emiliano.

For a moment, I'm frozen, staring at the words that feel as intimate as a confession.

Who was this boy—this Emiliano—and what happened to their one hundred days?

I look back at her again, her movements steady, practiced, as if she doesn't have a care in the world. But I see the faint lines of exhaustion around her eyes, the quiet weight she carries in her shoulders. And for the first time, I wonder if there's a piece of her heart she buried in the past, a part that still aches for what could've been.

"Mom," I ask softly, flipping the next page of the photo album.  A picture of her as a young woman, standing with the same guy but older. He is in an Italian military uniform. Her lips pressed onto his cheek  "Do you miss Italy? And Massachusetts?"

Her hand stills over the dish towel she's holding, and she leans back against the counter, a faraway look settling over her face. "I miss it every day," she says finally, her voice quieter, tinged with something raw and unguarded. "Italy... It feels like another lifetime. And Massachusetts... that's where everything began for me."

Her words trail off, her eyes drift to the photo album in my lap, to the life she once had—before Dad, before us, before Coastal Bay. I see it in the way her lips tighten, the way her hand brushes over her wedding band. There's a story buried there, one she hasn't told me yet.

I don't press her, but my curiosity burns. "Was it hard to leave?"

Her gaze meets mine, and for a second, I catch something unspoken in her expression. A flicker of longing, of pain, of memories she's held close to her heart for so long they've become part of her.

"It was the hardest thing I've ever done," she admits, her voice trembling just enough to make my chest ache. "But sometimes, Grace, life asks us to let go of things we love, even when it hurts. And we convince ourselves it's for the best, for the people we love most. But... some pieces of your heart never really leave the places or the people that meant something."

Her words settle between us, heavy but beautiful, and I feel the ache of her honesty. I turn the page again, and there's another photo—another photo of her Massachusetts, standing on a cobblestone street with a man I've never seen before. He's holding her hand, his dark hair falling into his eyes as they both laugh.

"Who's that?" I ask, pointing to the man in the picture.

She blinks, as if startled, and a faint blush rises in her cheeks. For a moment, I think she won't answer. But then she smiles softly, the kind of smile that's half joy, half sadness. "His name was Emiliano." she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "He was... someone very special to me, a long time ago." Her hand brushes over the photo, lingering for just a second too long. 

"Do you ever wonder... what would it be like, if you stayed?" I search her eyes, Mom turns around and clears her throat. 

"Grace, put that away and strain the pasta, please," Mom calls over her shoulder, breaking my thoughts.

Reluctantly, I close the photo album with a soft thump letting my fingers linger on the worn leather cover. I step closer to the stove, grabbing the colander, but my eyes can't help but drift back to Mom. I glance at her, catching the faint discoloration on her shoulders again. The dark purples and blues seem out of place against her sun-kissed skin.

"Mom, what happened to your shoulders?" I ask, my voice soft but steady as I set the colander down.

Mom pauses, her hands still for a brief second before she casually pushes her sleeves up further, as though hiding the marks will make them disappear. "Don't worry," she gives a quick smile, her tone light but a little too quick. "I ran into the dresser this morning. I'm okay."

"Okay." I study her for a moment, twisting my lips in disbelief. Her smile doesn't reach her eyes, and she turns away to chop some parsley. Just then, the doorbell rings once, its chime slicing through the quiet kitchen. Before I can make my way to answer, I pause, Rachel sweeps in before I get the chance, cradling little Luca in her arms.

"Hi, Grace," Rachel greets, as her eyes sweep over me, assessing with surgical precision. "You look... nice." 

Right behind her, Derek steps in, his towering frame making the doorway feel smaller. His hand rests firmly on the small of Rachel's back. His gaze briefly lands on me before flicking away.

They step past me into the living room, Rachel settling into the armchair with the poise of someone who knows she belongs. She's draped in a sleek black satin maxi dress that clings to her figure just enough to remind everyone in the room that she's effortlessly perfect. The fabric catches the light, shimmering faintly as she crosses her legs. I glance down at my blue floral puff-sleeve dress, suddenly hyper-aware of how plain I must seem next to her.

"Thanks," I murmur, my voice barely audible, as I tug at the fabric, an unconscious attempt to hide.

Rachel's gaze lingers on my shoulders, her lips curving into a faint smirk that sets my teeth on edge. "You know," she starts, her tone honeyed but sharp, "You could really use shoulder pads. Your shoulders are too narrow for that style. It'd give you more structure and posture"

"Oh right. "  I press my lips together, swallowing the sting as I pretend to adjust the hem of my dress.

Her smirk deepens, her attention shifting to my hair. Her eyes fix on the single braid I threw together earlier, strands escaping to frame my face. Her tongue clicks softly, a deliberate sound of disapproval, as her manicured nails skim through Luca's curls. "You're turning twenty-one tomorrow, Grace," she continues, tilting her head as if she's about to impart some great wisdom. "Don't you think it's time to start putting yourself together properly? You can't just throw on a dress and call it a day. Don't you want a man to actually notice you?" She pauses, her voice taking on a mockingly thoughtful tone. "Like Zack, for example. He's always looking at you in the young adult group. But guys don't go for... messy. They like girls who try a little more like your friend Mary. She always put together."

Derek, who had been standing silently until now, chuckles low under his breath. "She's not wrong," he remarks, leaning against the doorway. His tone is casual, but there's something in the way he looks at me—like I'm an unfinished project. "Guys like women who take care of themselves, how do you think Esther got the king?"

If I remember correctly I'm pretty sure that's not how the story went. 

The truth about Esther has nothing to do with winning the king through beauty or perfection. She didn't seek his attention; she didn't vie for his approval. She was chosen, yes, but what set her apart wasn't her looks or the way she "put herself together." It was her bravery, her faith, and her willingness to risk her life for her people. She walked into danger, uninvited, to plead for mercy from a man who could have killed her without a second thought. Esther wasn't some polished trophy—she was a warrior in her own right, though not the kind Derek would ever understand.

The air feels heavy, suffocating, as I resist the urge to shrink further under their combined scrutiny. I glance at Rachel, who beams at Derek's validation like it's her birthright. "See?" she says, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "Even Derek agrees. You just have to put in a little effort, Grace. It's not that hard." Her words twist like a knife, each syllable sharper than the last. "Haven't I taught you anything since I left?" she finishes, her laugh light.. Shifting Luca in her arms and kissing his cheek.

I force a short, humorless laugh and mutter, "Yes, many things." But the bitterness sits heavy on my tongue, unspoken.

Having an older sister can either be a blessing or a curse, and with Rachel, it feels like the latter—every single day.

Rachel, with her perfect magazine blonde hair, undoubtedly inherited from Dad's side, rather than Mom's dark, elegant Italian roots. She's always had this relentless need to look, speak, and act flawlessly. Perfection isn't just her goal—it's her armor. I guess when the oldest child is a drug addict, and the youngest has a disability, it makes sense. She stepped into the spotlight while Caleb and I struggled in the shadows.

And our parents didn't just allow it—they encouraged it. Mom and Dad poured their energy into Rachel, their shining beacon of what they wanted the world to see: a golden child. Caleb and I were burdens they had to carry, while Rachel became their hope, their pride.

And she never let us forget it.

Mom enters the living room with a big smile, running her fingers through her hair in that familiar way, her face lighting up with a smile as she sees Luca "Hi, Rachel, and il mio dolce nipote," Mom reaches for little Luca in Rachel's arms.

Rachel sighs, her face softening as she hands Luca over to Mom, her arms lingering for just a moment before she lets go. "Mom, it smells so good. I miss your home cooking," 

"Yeah, it smells way better than Rachel's," Derek cuts in with a smirk, his words laced with sarcasm. He leans back slightly, his smug grin more of a challenge than a joke. "Not sure how she burns pasta."

Rachel shifts uncomfortably, her smile faltering for just a moment before she lets out a forced laugh, trying to brush it off. "Where's Dad?" Rachel asks, her eyes scanning the room as though searching for a sign of him.

Mom straightens up, adjusting Luca in her arms before answering. "Oh, he had that Republican meeting this morning. He's in the city, so he'll be late. He wanted to apologize for not being here tonight."

I can't help but feel a small sense of relief that he isn't here, but Derek is making up for it.

"Oh, that's right," Rachel said, her smile quick but tight, as if she were forcing the words out. "Such a great opportunity for him."

"I'm so proud of him," Mom adds, her voice bright. She smiles, but I can see the way her eyes dart away to Luca.

"Me too, turning the nation for the better," Rachel finishes, her voice a bit too eager now.

"He is doing what others are scared to do," Derek gruffs and he folds his arms. "Everyone wants to be fake kind, but that's not the gospel. It's about righteous and pure intentions."

I feel it settle in my chest like a rock, and for a moment, no one speaks. The way he says it, like he's handing down a decree, like his beliefs are the only ones that matter, makes my skin crawl. I look at Rachel—her face trying to hold a smile that's becoming flatter and flatter.

"Of course," Rachel mutters, her voice rasping slightly as she tries to push through the discomfort. Mom, sensing the shift in the room, bends down to kiss Luca's cheek and hands him back to Rachel.

"I'm going to set the table." I swallow hard, trying to push the lump in my throat away, and walk into the dining room.  I never understood why Rachel chose a man like Derek but then again I do.  I place another plate down on the table, when I hear Rachel's voice rise in the living room.

"Mom, did you know Caleb called me to ask for money again? He said he really needs it, but I told him I can't help him. You know, he sounded really high on the phone." Rachel's voice weighed with frustration

Mom sighs quietly, "Leave it to me, Rachel. Don't worry about him, okay?"

"Stop babying him mom, he doesn't care, he just going to keep doing what he wants!" Rachel huffs, probably rolling his eyes.

"I'm not babying him but he is my child. Which I hope you understand since you have a son now." Mom gently snaps back.

Rachel doesn't seem convinced, her tone sharp as she continues. "I don't know how he got our number. I don't like him calling the house, seeking. He made his bed, now he needs to lie in it." Derek huffs from the corner.

"I'll take care of it," Mom desperately sighs.

Just then, the sound of the front door creaks open, followed by the rapid pitter-patter of Ellie's feet racing up the stairs.

"Take care of what?" I hear Dad's voice from the doorway, his loafers clacking on the hardwood floor.

"Just a couple things to help out Rachel and Derek." Moms hum her voice and get smaller.

"Oh hey, Dad. I didn't know you were coming, Mom said you were at the Republican meeting in the city." Rachel's voice cheery and light.

I place the last plate down and walk into the living room to see Mom helping Dad out of his coat, her fingers brushing over the fabric. She hangs it up on the coat rack, then places his Bible carefully on the end table, a ritual I've seen a thousand times. Rachel's bouncing Luca in her arms, his gummy smile lighting up the room.

Dad walks over to Rachel, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then to Luca's. "Traffic wasn't too bad and we had family dinner." His voice gruff but with a hint of affection.

He didn't seem to care about that this morning. 

"Well, it's good to see you," Rachel's smile wide and warm but doesn't reach her eyes. 

"Yes, you too," Dad replies, his hand moving to give Derek a pat on the shoulder "Good to see you Derek." Dad concludes.

"Dinner is just about ready, Everyone can go into the dining room." Mom cuts in as she walks back into the kitchen.

"It's not ready yet?" Dad mumbles under his breath making my hand tighten into a fist. Dad's eyes linger on me. "Grace, how was work?"

I clear my throat and place my hands in front of me, "It was good Dad, I got to see Mrs. Reyes today and her grandchildren."

He nods, giving me one last glance, "That's nice." He walks into the kitchen where mom is leaning down whispering into her ear. Dad steps closer, and I see his hand settle on her waist—too firm. Her shoulders slump and her feet become quicker than the ease from early.

"Is she alright Grace? Mrs.Reyes?" Rachel inquires, as she adjusts Luca in her arms.

I shrug, glancing at the kitchen where mom's shoulders slumped lower as she arranged something on the serving plate. "I didn't really ask, because I know it's a sensitive subject and I wanted to remain professional at work."

Rachel furrows her brows but shrugs, "I get it, it's just too sad about the whole situation, they are such good people. I feel bad for them, especially their daughter. She is so far away doing the lord's work." Rachel admits, while Luca snuggles into her arms.

We make it into the dining room and settle in our seats. The table is an impressive display of effort and tradition, set with Mom's finest embroidered tablecloth, a soft cream with delicate floral designs that she brings out only on special occasions. At the center, a large wooden serving board holds the freshly baked focaccia, glistening with olive oil and sprinkled with rosemary and sea salt. 

A bowl of vibrant Panzanella salad sit nearby, the ripe tomatoes, crisp cucumbers, and torn basil leaves glistening in the warm glow of the overhead light. Plates of golden-brown tortelli di patate, stuffed with creamy potato filling, are arranged artfully alongside a dish of roasted vegetables, charred just enough to bring out their sweetness.

The air is heavy with the rich aroma of garlic, herbs, and the faint sweetness of balsamic vinegar. Mom has clearly outdone herself again, spending hours in the kitchen to create this feast. Every dish tells a story, a connection to her roots, her love for us etched into every meticulous detail.

Dad settles at the head of the table, his presence imposing even when he's silent. Mom takes her seat beside him, leaving the spot next to her for me. Rachel and Derek sit across from us, Rachel balancing Luca on her lap while Derek leans back in his chair and his arm draped over Rachel's. The empty seat next to me feels like a ghost, a silent reminder of Caleb's absence. It leaves the table feeling incomplete, like a puzzle missing a critical piece. Mom knows it as her gaze flicks to my side.

"Let us pray," Dad's deep voice fills the room with authority, his tone steady and calm. We all bow our heads, the faint scrape of chairs against the hardwood floor the only sound. "Heavenly Father, we thank You for the food we are about to receive. Let it nourish our bodies and bless the hands that prepared it. Amen."

"Amen," we all murmur, lifting our heads.

Mom smiles warmly as she sets Dad's plate in front of him, the corners of her lips curling slightly as she looks around the table. "How was everyone's day?"

"Well, Luca here knows how to smile today," Rachel cradles him in her arms, shifting him gently while trying to scoop food onto her plate. Luca's head rests against her shoulder, little fingers curling around the fabric of her top of her dress. "And I went to the women's ministry this morning," she adds.

Mom chuckles lightly. "Oh, that was this morning? I must have gotten carried away" She picks up a breadstick and looks at Rachel. Mom tilts her head slightly, "Did they figure out meal prep for the Reyes?"

"We did," Rachel balancing Luca on her shoulder with one hand while reaching for her glass with the other. "Nicole's doing Tuesdays, but I signed up for Wednesday with you, Mom." Rachel flashes a quick smile.

Mom frowns gently, her eyes softening. "Oh, Rachel, that's the day I teach painting classes at the Senior center, well I guess we will figure it out." 

Dad looks up from his phone, his thick brows furrowing slightly. "How come you weren't there to coordinate this Bethany? Aren't you the leader of the women's ministry?" He accused.

"I was preparing dinner for everyone for tonight," Mom replies, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face. "And I talked to my Mamma today."

Dad nods slowly, eyes narrowing as he takes in the situation. "I could tell there was a lot of garlic in this, a bit over kill" he takes a bite and scrunches his face and places his fork down.

Mom looks down at her plate twirling a piece of lettuce, "I thought it was just right."

"It tastes good, Mom. Real good," I add, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

"Yeah, I never use that much but it's perfect." Rachel gives a quick smile. 

Mom smiles, her eyes meeting mine with a nod of approval. "Thanks," She then turns to Dad, clearly eager to shift the topic. "Jared, how was the meeting?"

Dad sets his fork down, wiping his mouth slowly with his napkin, "The Republican meeting went well." He leans back slightly, as though preparing to deliver a sermon. "It's refreshing to hear leaders speak openly about God again. It's been too long since this country remembered its roots."

Mom hums a faint "That's wonderful, dear," though she doesn't look up from her plate.

"They're moving forward with plans to bring prayer back into schools," Dad continues, puffing out his chest. He looks around the table, eyes scanning each of us. "It's about time children learned respect, faith, and morals instead of all this nonsense about self-expression and tolerance. We're a Christian nation, and it's time we started acting like one."

I feel my eyes narrow, the heat rising in my chest. I inwardly roll my eyes at his outdated views. Didn't the founding fathers escape England for this very reason—separating church from state?

Rachel, her eyes bright and eager, doesn't seem to notice my discomfort. "I think that's a wonderful idea, Dad," she leans forward slightly as she shifts Luca again, her voice dripping with sweetness. "I would want that for Luca." She plants a quick kiss on his forehead.

Dad looks down at her, with a smug smile "That's why I did it."

Derek chimes in from across the table, his voice low and thoughtful. "It would probably reduce the crime in this city, especially after what happened to the boardwalk at that T-shirt shop."

Dad looks up from his phone, his gaze darkening for a moment. "It was all over the news this morning," he mutters, his lips twisting in disdain. "It's a shame, really."

"It was Amal's family store," I defend, tightening my hand around my spoon,  "It wasn't right."

Rachel shrugs dismissively, still trying to eat while bouncing Luca gently in her arms. "Things like that happen, Grace,"

"It shouldn't happen if we treat everyone equally," I shoot back, narrowing my eyes at her, my voice hardening.

"You're right, sweetie," Mom says, her voice softer now. She avoids Dad's eyes, looking down at her plate. "I'm really sorry to hear that about Amal and her family. They are such a nice family, it should have never happened." She bites into her food. 

"Equality's a nice thought, Grace," Dad says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "But fairness isn't something you can just hand out like candy." He chews slowly, the words lingering in the air like a bad taste, before he takes another bite.

Mom, sensing the growing tension, quickly tries to steer the conversation. "Let's talk about lighter things," she suggests, her eyes flicking to me. "Grace's birthday is tomorrow. Can you believe it?" She smiles, a soft, nostalgic look crossing her face as though she's remembering the day I was born.

Dad raises an eyebrow, the faintest trace of a smirk playing at his lips. "Hard to believe," he says, his voice matter-of-fact. "We talked about this earlier, Grace. Hmm?"

Rachel, never one to miss an opportunity, eyes me with a sly grin. "I'm getting so old, What's the plan for the big twenty-one?" She ladles a generous portion of Panzanella onto her plate, the wooden spoon clinking softly against the bowl. 

"Oh, uh, I have a few things in mind,"  I reach for the dish of Tortelli di patate , the buttery scent wafting upward as I lift the serving spoon. The warmth seeps into my fingers as I carefully place a few onto my plate. Steam curls lazily from the golden pasta, mingling with the herby aroma of sage and browned butter.

"A few things? Like what?" Rachel prods, her voice lilting with mock curiosity.

I glance up briefly, meeting her scrutinizing eyes before lowering mine back to my plate. "I was just going to have a few friends over for dinner," I murmur, twirling my fork into the delicate folds of the pasta.

"Is Zack coming?" Rachel teases, as she leans slightly toward me. The question hangs in the air, sticky and unwelcome. "We gotta make sure you look nice."

"Zackary Bishop? The worship team drummer?" Dad chimes in, as he sets his fork down with a soft clink.

I swallow quickly, my throat tightening. "It's not like that," I chase the pasta with a sip of lemon water.

Rachel shrugs, leaning back in her chair. "If you say so, he always has his eyes on you" she muses, her grin widening as she spears a piece of salad.

"Zackary Bishop is a nice young man. I would approve of him over that other boy you hang around," Dad remarks, his voice rough and weighted with judgment.

I pause mid-reach for my water, my brow arching as I replay his words in my head. It takes a moment to click. He's talking about Hunter—. A dry laugh escapes me, unbidden. The idea of Hunter, who wouldn't touch me with a ten-foot pole, is so absurd it borders on laughable.

"Dad," A small smile tugging at my lips, "He likes boys."

Dad's eyes narrow, hard and searing like embers fanned into flames. "I don't understand why you hang out with him still, after I told you not too" Dad finally says, his voice low but brimming with disdain. "He is not a positive influence."

Mom sets down her fork with deliberate calm, the sound soft yet purposeful. "I think Hunter is a very nice young man, He has always been a good friend to Grace" she interjects.

Dad's head snaps toward her, his glare sharp enough to cut glass. "He isn't following the right path, and you think that's nice?" he growls, each word laced with venom. "What he does is an abomination. It's sinful. I'm not sure why you want to hang around someone who is consumed by sin."

My stomach churns, a sickening heat crawling up my neck as his words hit, sharp and unforgiving. "He isn't sinful," I snap, my voice taut and trembling, though I fight to steady it. My fingers curl around the spoon, the edges digging into my palm. "He's actually a good person if you'd bother to get to know him."

Dad leans back in his chair, his movements deliberate, but his gaze remains steely, unwavering. His hand tightens around the handle of his knife, the veins in his hand standing out like cords, though he doesn't raise it. "I don't want to hear it," he growls, his voice low but cutting. "If he refuses to follow the ways of God, then he's not welcome in this house."

Across from me, Rachel exhales trying to figure out what to say, "Grace, honestly," she says, her voice honeyed yet cool, the perfect mix of pity and disapproval. Her gaze locks onto mine, sharp and assessing. "It's not good for you to hang out with someone like him. He's clearly not following God's path, and you know it. It's okay to spend time with Amal because maybe you can show her the true God and not Allah and is Willow even a christian?"

The pressure on my spoon becomes raw as my jaw tightens as the words burst out, defiant and raw. "Lay off, on my friends at least I have real ones."

Rachel narrows her eyes at me, "The only reason why you all are friends from trauma bonding in school from your differences."

Anger courses through my veins and I bang my hand on the table "Shut up Rachel, you don't even know what you're talking about!"

"I know enough." Rachel swipes her hair over her shoulder.

"You think Nicole, Emberly and Kate are you friends! They basically follow you around because your status!" I bark back and Rachel laughs dryly shaking her head and looking at Derek whispers "This is what I'm talking about."

"You can say it in front of the table!" I fuss and fold my arms.

"Enough Grace. Eat your dinner" Dad gruffs. 

"You're just jealous thats what I'm talking about!" Rachel slants her eyes and holds on to Luca.

"Jealous to be a young mom, yeah right. Being married eighteen, thats a big accomplishment" I mock, shaking my head in disbelief.

"Girls please stop." Mom cuts in, looking at the both of us having a full on war eye contest.

"She started it like always, always listening to Dad not having an opinion." I whisper, grinding my teeth and stab a potato.

The sharp clang of utensils hitting plates echoes like a gunshot, reverberating through the room. I can feel Dad's glare burn into the side of my face scooping it. "Listen here, young lady," he seethes, his voice low but vibrating with barely contained fury. "If you're living in my house, under my roof, it is my business who you associate with and what they do. I won't allow people who don't follow God into this house." He leans forward slightly, his words slower, deliberate. "And he's your God too."

I swallow hard, my pulse hammering in my ears, and meet his gaze head-on. "If your god is so full of love, then why do you spend all your time judging people who don't fit into your narrow little world? I mean you don't even acknowledge my real friends!" My voice cracks, but I don't care. 

Dad stares at me, his jaw tight, the veins in his temple pulsing as his grip on the knife tightens. Rachel lets out a soft, theatrical sigh, leaning back in her chair as though she's suddenly above the chaos she helped stir.

"You're so ungrateful," Dad finally says, his voice cold and precise, like a blade slicing through the air. "We've given you everything, Grace. A roof over your head, food on your plate, clothes on your back, and this is how you repay me? With disrespect? With rebellion? Maybe Bible school is a good option, send you a way to find your way back!"

Mom eyes stretch big and she opens her lips "Jared, I thou-" Dad cuts her off with a palm to her face.

"Bible School!" I shove my chair back abruptly, the legs screeching against the hardwood floor.  I stand up with my fist at my sides. 

"Yes, I want to send you Texas. I have a great friend out there who started a bible school for character building which is clearly what you need. I already am in the process of paying for it" Dad barks back at me.

"I'm not going!" I shout.

"Grace seriously you don't need to act out. Besides, bible school great I did it, thats how I meant Derek.

I throw my hands up the air and step away from the table, "I rather live on the street!"

"Don't be dramatic, sit down." Rachel laughs.

"Yes you are now sit down, end of discussion!" Dad points at my chair and I step back.

"Enough, please." Mom whispers, her voice fragile, trembling like a cracked glass about to shatter. She looks up at me, her eyes wide and glistening, pleading for peace. "Please. Let's just finish dinner," she begs, her voice nearly breaking. "Please."

For a moment, I falter, catching the weariness in her eyes, the silent weight she carries. But it's too much—too much to stay seated, to keep swallowing words and choking down feelings. I glance at her one last time, my throat tight, and turn away.

The kitchen feels stifling as I walk through it, my movements sharp and hurried. I push open the patio door and step outside, letting the salty ocean breeze crash against my skin like a wave. The cool air prickles my cheeks, and I breathe in deeply, desperate for clarity. Above me, the night sky stretches vast and endless, studded with stars that blink like a million tiny promises of something bigger, something better.

I don't stop moving. I rush down the patio stairs and onto the beach, my feet sinking into the cool sand with every step. The waves roll in, dark and endless, their rhythm both soothing and unsettling. I stop at the water's edge, letting the icy ocean foam lick at my feet, the cold seeping into my bones.

If there's one thing I know as I stand there, staring out at the dark horizon, it's this: I can't stay. Not in this house, not at that table, not in a life where my voice feels small and my dreams are drowned out by everyone else's expectations. The pull of the ocean matches the ache in my chest, both relentless and unyielding, whispering truths I've been too scared to say out loud.

When I turn twenty-one, I'm leaving.

I close my eyes and let the wind whip through my hair, the salt sting my cheeks. I picture myself walking away, stepping into a life that doesn't feel like I'm holding my breath. A life where I can laugh without guilt, dream without limits, and speak without being silenced. Somewhere far away from this place, this suffocating weight, this constant war between love and disappointment.

Leaving means choosing myself, for the first time. It means accepting that staying here will only break me further. I open my eyes as tears flow down my cheeks. The ocean stretches endlessly before me, dark and unknowable. 

And yet, it's strangely comforting—an open invitation to dive into something new, something terrifying but alive. I whisper a vow to myself, quiet and unshakable, carried off by the breeze: 

"I'll find my way. I'll start over. Even if it scares me. Even if it hurts."

Author's Note

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Merry Christmas everyone!

Long Chapters Matter, you guys know this especially from Shoot your Shot. 

I am so excited about journey of Grace and Christopher and the motivation I have for this story. ALOT is going to conspire and I hope you enjoy the painful and loving journey between the two. Please read and pay close attention because when things get revealed you are going to be so shocked it's sickening lol.

What do you think about Grace's character? She is bold right? I like her and I like her free thinking.

What do you think about Grace's parents?

What do you think about Rachel... oh you guys are going to be in a love hate relationship with Rachel lol