The dining room is too quiet for how many people are sitting at the table.

You’ve always hated these long, formal dinners. The candles, the silver cutlery you’re not supposed to scratch, the silence between courses where everyone waits for someone else to speak. Normally, it’s just you, your parents, and your husband. Four people who know exactly how to exist in stillness.

But tonight, there’s five.

Ari sits across from you, smiling at something your father just said. She laughs a little too loudly, touches her wine glass like it’s a prop she’s practiced with. Her eyes catch the candlelight—sharp, curious, too aware.

She’s been back three days.

In those three days, she’s made herself known in every room of the house. She remembers details you never knew, makes your mother cry with stories about the doll she still remembers having. You should feel something. Sadness. Guilt. Relief, maybe.

Instead, all you feel is the growing sense that you’re slowly being erased.

“She was always a picky eater,” your mother says, laughing as Ari waves away the roasted duck.

“Oh, still am,” Ari smiles. “You don’t want to know what they fed us growing up. I’m amazed I made it out this pretty.”

Your father chuckles. Your mother beams.

You glance at your plate. Cut. Chew. Smile.

Your husband says nothing. He rarely does at these dinners.

But then Ari turns her attention to him.

“So… what is it you do again?” she asks, tilting her head slightly.

He looks up from his plate, calm as ever. “Financial law. Private clients.”

“Sounds thrilling,” she says, teasing. “I bet you’re just as serious at home.”

You tense.

He doesn’t react.

You reach for your glass and sip slowly.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you smile once since I got here,” she adds with a playful nudge in her voice. “Don’t worry—I’ll wear you down eventually.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes. Barely anything. But you’ve learned to read him in the quiet.

“I doubt that,” he says, almost politely.

Ari laughs again, but it feels like performance. She enjoys pushing. Testing.

Your mother watches her like she hung the moon.

You set your glass down a little too hard, the clink sharp in the soft hum of conversation.

“She’s persistent,” you say lightly, not quite looking at anyone.

“She’s just trying to bond,” your mother says without missing a beat. “You could try too.”

You swallow.

Ari’s smile never wavers. She holds your gaze across the table for just a second longer than she should.

Like a challenge.