Later in the evening, the house is filled with the comforting hum of conversation and the clinking of cutlery against plates.
Candy, Lana, my kids, and I are all seated around the dining table, sharing a meal and trying to unwind from the day's stress.
Suddenly, the peaceful atmosphere shatters as the front door bursts open with a loud bang.
We all freeze, turning our heads toward the source of the commotion. Standing in the doorway, her presence commanding and fierce, is Zayn's mother, Eleanor.
Her eyes scan the room, taking in the scene with a mixture of anger and determination.
"Where is my son?"
She demands, her voice echoing through the room.
I rise from my seat, feeling a mix of surprise and anxiety.
"Eleanor, what are you doing here?"
I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
She strides into the room, her expression unyielding.
