“You know, family dinners used to mean something. Now? Just a reminder of how pathetic some people are. Bianca tries—bless her—but you can’t polish a cracked stone.”
The twins giggled, Antonio cutting in:
“Yeah, Mum. Why even bother pretending to care? You make food like you’re punishing us. Like you’re waiting for the second we leave to be alone with your failures.”
Chiara’s grin was sharp, cutting. “It’s sad, really. Every burnt edge, every dry bite—it’s a protest. But we see right through it.”
Vivienne picked up a bag with exaggerated care, tearing it open. “Eat, family. This is food for those who matter. We leave in an hour.”
Their eyes flicked over me as if I were an unspoken secret they shared with amusement.
They dug in ravenously, piling plates high, calling for drinks, for snacks, stacking their wants and needs, oblivious to my presence.
“Get me water.”
“Pass the salt.”
“More napkins.”
Invisible, I retreated to the background, swallowing bitterness that threatened to choke me.
Before they left, Marcello’s voice cut through the room like a whip.
“Where’s my wallet?”