ASHAL
The living room has never felt this alive. It hums with soft laughter, overlapping conversations, the quiet creak of leather as people shift on seats that have hosted far more formal gatherings than this. Tonight, the space feels different: warmer, looser, almost… normal.
My son is at the center of it all.
I sit back on the couch, one arm resting along the backrest, the other loosely draped across my lap as I watch my mother cradle him like he's something sacred. Her movements are careful and very protective, like she's afraid he might slip through her fingers if she holds him too loosely.
"He has your nose," she murmurs, brushing her thumb gently over his cheek.
"No, he doesn't," Maddi says from beside me, leaning forward slightly, her voice laced with quiet amusement. "That's definitely from my side of the family."
I glance at her briefly.
