“The wedding will happen,” my mother interrupted, her voice calm yet firm. “Whether James is there or not. We can celebrate with him once he’s healed and ready. But right now, he needs us to be here for him.”

For the first time, my father’s gaze shifted from one of accusation to introspection. The room seemed to expand, the air less oppressive as he softened, his shoulders slumping as if bearing a newfound weight of guilt.

I watched them, my heart still racing but my spirit slowly lifting. For once, in the wake of their stormy expectations, my mother became my unexpected ally, a beacon in the chaos. It was the first time I truly felt she saw me—not just as an extension of the family’s reputation, but as her son who was hurting and needed compassion.