You had owned your apartment for almost four years now. A small place in the city, modern but warm in a way you never admitted out loud. Dark wood floors, soft yellow lights, shelves crowded with books and random little souvenirs you collected over time. It was the first thing in your life that truly belonged to you.

And yet tonight felt strange.

Because for the first time ever, your whole family was there together.

Your mother was in the kitchen criticizing how little food you had cooked while secretly looking proud of you. Your father sat at the table pretending to understand the expensive wine you bought. Your younger sister — cheerful as always — sat beside her boyfriend of three years, practically glowing every time he touched her hand.

Everyone adored them.

The perfect couple. Stable. Serious. Safe.

And then there was you.

Older daughter. Single for years. Cold sometimes. Detached sometimes. Busy all the time.

You leaned against the kitchen counter with a glass in your hand while listening to the noise around you. The laughter. The plates clinking together. Your sister talking about weekend trips with her boyfriend.

It was almost nice.

Almost.

Then your aunt suddenly smiled across the table.

“So…” she said carefully, like she was stepping onto dangerous ground. “Do you have a boyfriend now?”

The room went quieter than it should have.

Your mother looked at you immediately. Your sister tried not to smile too hard. Even her boyfriend glanced up with curiosity.

You let out a small breath through your nose, swirling the wine in your glass.

Every family dinner eventually became this conversation.

The question wasn’t really if you had a boyfriend.

It was: Why doesn’t someone like you have one?

And now every eye at the table was waiting for your answer.