The afternoon had been carefully planned down to the smallest detail, the kind of planning that comes from hope rather than optimism. Emma had spent the better part of the day in the kitchen, moving quietly, methodically, telling herself that if she kept everything calm and perfect, the evening might pass without incident. The windows were open just enough to let in cool air, the table set neatly with plates that had only been used for “company,” and the smell of roasted vegetables and fresh herbs filled the house. Lily sat at the corner of the dining table, legs swinging gently as she colored, humming to herself, blissfully unaware of the emotional landmines scattered through the room. Emma watched her with a familiar mix of love and vigilance. Hosting her in-laws always required that. Margaret, her mother-in-law, had an uncanny ability to turn the smallest moment into a weapon, and Emma had learned long ago to anticipate the tension even before it arrived. Daniel, her husband, moved around the living room with that practiced neutrality he’d perfected over years—never agreeing, never objecting, simply existing in the narrow space between peacekeeping and avoidance.