In the Crawford household, the soft clinking of silverware filled the wide, warmly lit dining hall. The entire family sat gathered around the long bronze-wood table, Aunt Irina, her son Venedikt, and the Crawfords, with steaming dishes arranged neatly across the polished surface.
Two dishes were unmistakably of Russian origin: pelmeni drenched in butter and herbs, and a steaming bowl of shchi cabbage soup. The other two were classic American comforts: roasted chicken with garlic glaze and creamy mashed potatoes crowned with gravy.
Everyone wore smiles, but none reached their eyes. A quiet tension hung in the air, thicker than the scent of spices that lingered from the kitchen.
"Mother… It's for work," Venedikt finally said, his tone careful, almost pleading. "So, can you not be angry?"
"Who said I'm angry?" Aunt Irina replied curtly, her gaze fixed on her plate as she spooned soup with practiced precision.
