CHAPTER 37: SUNDAY DINNER

The house hadn’t changed.

Not the structure, not the scent. Not the faint hum of the refrigerator that always ran just a little louder than it should. Not the worn oak floors or the rosemary candles her mother insisted on burning even in July. Everything looked the same—but that, somehow, made it worse.

Sera stood just inside the front door, her damp boots still on, bag slung over her shoulder, fingers tight on the strap. The house should have felt different. After everything. After what she’d become. After what she knew was coming. But no. The universe didn’t bend around a single girl’s changes. It just carried on, neat and polished and pretending everything was fine.

The smell of roast chicken drifted through the air, layered with butter and something starchy—potatoes, maybe. Plates clinked in the dining room. Her mother’s voice floated in from the kitchen, bright and melodic.

"Sweetheart! You’re just in time."

Sera blinked once and stepped forward. "I said I’d be here by five," she called back, her voice steady even as her chest stayed tight.

She took off her boots and walked down the hall, each step too soft on the familiar rug. Light from the chandelier spilled into the dining room, painting the white walls gold. The table was already set, same plates, same cutlery. Same chipped butter dish in the middle. Time hadn’t touched anything here.

Her father stood when she entered. "Come here."

He was still tall and broad-shouldered, with a jaw that had aged well and those black-rimmed glasses that always made him look less tired than he was. He pulled her into a hug, brief but firm, and she let him. Just for a moment. Then she pulled back and took her usual seat—end of the table, right by the window, her back to the glass.

Her mother bustled in with a platter balanced in both hands. "Scalloped potatoes and roast chicken. I didn’t want to make anything too heavy—we’re still recovering from that drive."

"Jet lag would’ve been easier," her father muttered as he sat down.

"You didn’t get jet lag," her mother replied, rolling her eyes. "You got food poisoning from eating gas station sushi like an idiot."

"It was Country M street food," he corrected.

"It was wrapped in cling film and handed to you by a man with no gloves. I don’t care what country we were in, it was sketchy."

Sera smiled faintly as she picked up her fork. She let them talk, her parents volleying stories back and forth like a game of badminton. How the roads were dusty and narrow, how the border guards had taken too long, how they’d had to siphon gas from another traveler just to make it to the next town. Her father chuckled over the worst motel he’d ever stayed in—peeling wallpaper and a bathtub that hadn’t drained properly in a decade.

She chewed slowly, listening. Letting them paint their trip with light strokes, as if it had been a holiday and not a necessity. As if they hadn’t dropped everything to go to Country M because her sister had wanted to see her parents. Nadia always used to say that Sera always got whatever she wanted, but she never really took time to reflect on her own actions.

The creature inside her didn’t speak, but it listened. Watching them, watching her.

By the time the plates were half empty and the red wine had stained the tablecloth, Sera finally cleared her throat.

"I’ve been thinking," she said quietly, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. "We should probably start stocking up on a few things."

Both of her parents paused.

She kept her voice even. "Just basics. Rice, salt, flour, oil. Some warm clothes. Maybe some water storage. Nothing crazy. Just a few things every week."

Her mother tilted her head. "Stocking up? For what?"

"Some of the podcasts I listen to..." She trailed off, hesitated, then forced herself to keep going. "They’ve been warning that this summer’s harvest might be affected. Weather patterns are changing. We might see serious food shortages by next winter."

Her father frowned. "And this is from a podcast?"

"Not just one," Sera said. "I’m not listening to conspiracy theorists in their basement. These are climate and economics analysts. Ones that actually predicted last year’s price spikes. They’re saying the weather this year is too mild. If we don’t get a hard spring frost, crop cycles will get thrown off. Prices will spike—or worse."

Her mother blinked. "Are you... prepping?"

"Not really," she said, quickly. "I’m not digging a bunker or buying a hand-crank radio. I just think it’s smart to be ahead of the curve."

There was a pause.

Her father leaned back in his chair. "You’ve always been a little... intense when you latch onto something."

Sera looked down at her plate, her hands clenching around her knife and fork.

"And what would you suggest?" her mother asked carefully. "We fill the garage with toilet paper and canned beans like it’s 2020 all over again?"

Sera sighed, low and tired. "2020 was a hundred years ago, Mom. And no, I’m not saying that. I just think that if we start with a few staples, we won’t have to worry if things get worse. That’s all."

Her mother reached across the table and touched her hand lightly. "We’ll think about it, sweetheart. Thank you for bringing it up."

Her tone was soft. Polite. Smiling.

And completely dismissive.

Sera forced herself to nod. "Okay."

But her spine stayed taut. She knew that tone. She’d heard it all her life. The one they used when she told them about the shadows under her bed, or when she said she didn’t like being alone in the basement after dark. The one that translated to: We love you, but you’re being dramatic.

The rest of the meal passed in quiet tension. Her parents didn’t ask again; they didn’t press. They just talked about their neighbor’s new dog and whether or not the gas stove needed replacing. Sera helped clear the table in silence, her mind already moving through lists—what she needed to buy next, what she needed to reinforce in the cabin.

She had warned them.

That part mattered. She’d said it out loud, planted the seed. What they chose to do with it now... wasn’t her problem. She had done what she could, and that was that.