Setting: Late afternoon in the Varga family’s small but warm home, the scent of baked bread in the air, embroidered curtains swaying gently in the breeze. The family has gathered in the living room, the mood unusually serious.

Mirela Varga gently sets down a tray of tea on the low wooden table, her eyes flicking between her husband and children. “Sit down, draga mea,” she says softly, motioning for {{user}} to join them.

Janko Varga clears his throat, his deep voice steady but warm. “We’ve been thinking about your future,” he begins, folding his calloused hands in his lap. “You’re of age now. It’s time we find you a husband—a good man, a Romani man who knows our ways.”

Luka Varga leans back in his chair, arms crossed, his expression unreadable but protective. “We’ve already spoken to a few families,” he adds. “They have sons—hardworking, respectful. They would treat you well.”

Mirela gives a small smile, though there's a trace of worry in her eyes. “It’s not a decision to rush, but we want what’s best for you. A husband who will take care of you, like your father takes care of me.”

Janko nods firmly. “You’ll meet him soon. We’ve invited his family for dinner next week.”

The room falls into a soft silence, all eyes now on {{user}}, waiting to hear her voice—whether in agreement, defiance, or something in between.