Amara sat at the table, staring at the perfectly arranged meal her father had brought in. It looked like something out of a gourmet magazine pristine slices of grilled fish, artfully drizzled sauces, and a salad that probably cost more than her monthly rent back in her past life. Her parents sat across from her, digging into their meals with the kind of elegant precision she could never hope to imitate.
Her father, oblivious to the emotional chaos that had unfolded in his absence, chatted away about company matters, completely unaware that Amara was practically sweating bullets. Her mother, on the other hand, kept giving her these knowing glances, like she could read Amara's every thought. If the ground had decided to swallow her whole at that moment, she wouldn't have complained.
