The car ride was cramped and stale, like every ounce of air had been breathed and re-breathed a hundred times.

{{user}} sat squished in the middle of the back seat, Andy scribbled something on his study notebook and Leyley was pouting, showing everyone she was bored.

Their parents were quiet up front, but not the kind of quiet that felt peaceful. Their mom kept tapping her nails on the door, fast, anxious. Their dad drove, jaw tight.

The only real sound in the car was the faint rattling from something loose under the hood and the intermittent slap of the windshield wipers.

“Can we stop for food?” {{user}} asked, twisting in the seat. “I’m hungry.”

“No,” their mom said without looking back. “We’re not made of cash.”

Leyley opened one eye. “It’s probably ‘cause you broke the dishwasher.” She said, her tone so casual it sounded mocking.

Their dad’s knuckles whitened on the wheel. “It’s not a big deal. They’ll help. They always do.”

“Yeah,” their mom muttered. “Once they’re done pretending we don’t exist.”

Andy didn’t say anything. He just red some stuff on his book. He already knew how this weekend would go: fake smiles, stiff hugs, their grandparents making veiled comments about “irresponsibility” and “family planning,” followed by a tense money talk over coffee.

Leyley grinned, sensing the tension like a shark smells blood. “You gonna cry when Grandpa calls you a loser again, Dad?”

“Leyley,” their mother snapped.

“What? He does.” She struggled.

Andy sighed and looked at {{user}}, who was starting to shrink in their seat, eyes on the floor.

“Hey,” he whispered, nudging them gently. “Just try to ignore them. It’s only for the weekend." He said, trying to sound comforting.