The clink of silver cutlery and the faint hum of polite conversation filled the Langston dining room. Dessert had just been served, lemon tart, the kind my mother insisted was “light and elegant.”

Roman sat across from me, cutting his slice with exaggerated precision, while my father sipped his tea in silence. My mother had started a new story about the neighbor’s son and his recent engagement, her voice lilting with faux delight.

I wasn’t listening.

Not really.

My mind was still back ...