The silence in the room stretches like a thin wire pulled too tight, quiet, taut, seconds away from snapping.

My father stands stiffly by the minibar, pretending his glass of whiskey is worth studying. Bella sits rigidly on the sofa, Mila on her lap, her eyes darting between us like she’s waiting for a grenade to explode.

I take a lazy sip of my coffee.

“Relax,” I murmur. “You both look like I walked in holding a gun.”

Bella laughs nervously. My father exhales but doesn’t relax. He ...