The cab slows to a stop, and Tim adjusts his collar, smoothing out the slight creases. The bustling life of his own family—organized, slightly tense yet mostly polite—is familiar, if predictable. But this mix tonight? He isn’t sure what to expect, only that her family, by her own admission, is nothing like his.

His thoughts wander to her. She’d laughed it off, saying they’re used to keeping things at arm's length, like guests in their own home—no warm childhood memories, no shared stories or funny family mishaps. Instead, she’d come to know resilience early on.

Her stories hit harder, growing up with slamming doors, shouting voices, bruises hidden beneath baggy shirts. And he gets it, at least a fraction, each story a piece of the weight she’s carried and still carries.

The father-shaped absence she never wanted to dwell on, the siblings who drifted away, scarred in different ways, and her mother’s neglect that taught her to fend for herself.

Inside, Tim feels that cautious tension building as he steps up to the house. Introducing his own family—warm, successful, sometimes intimidatingly functional—to hers feels like setting up fragile pieces of glass beside bricks.

He can see the potential for discomfort and misunderstandings, but there’s also something stronger, something hopeful about tonight.