“Gabriela. It’s so good to see you.” Giving my mom a dazzling smile, my former captor leans down to brush his lips against her cheek in a European gesture. When he straightens, she looks flushed, like a schoolgirl with her first crush. Leaving her to recover, Julian turns his attention to my dad. “It’s a pleasure meeting you in person, Tony,” he says, extending his hand.

“Likewise,” my dad says, his jaw tight as he takes Julian’s proffered hand in a white-knuckled handshake. “I’m glad you were finally able to make it out here.”

“Yes, so am I,” Julian says smoothly, releasing my dad’s hand. I notice red finger marks on his hand where my dad purposefully squeezed too hard, and my heart skips a beat. However, when I sneak a glance at my dad’s hand, I realize with relief that there’s no corresponding damage there.

Julian must’ve forgiven my dad this small act of aggression—or at least I’m hoping that’s the case.

As we walk toward the dining room, I steal covert looks at my husband’s handsome profile. Having my former captor in my childhood home is beyond strange. I’m used to being with him in exotic, foreign locations, not Oak Lawn, Illinois. Seeing Julian in my parents’ house is a bit like encountering a wild tiger in a suburban mall—it’s bizarre in a scary way.

“Oh, honey, you’re so thin,” my mom exclaims, eyeing me critically as we enter the dining room. “I knew you wouldn’t start rounding out with the baby yet, but you look like you’ve lost weight.”

“I know,” Julian says, placing a hand on my lower back. His touch both warms and discomfits me, coming as it does in front of my parents. “With the nausea, it’s been tough getting her to eat well. At least she stopped losing weight. You should’ve seen her four weeks ago.”

“Was it really bad, honey?” my mom asks sympathetically when we stop in front of the table. She’s keeping her eyes on my face, clearly determined to ignore Julian’s possessive gesture. My dad, however, grits his teeth so hard I can practically hear the grinding noise.

“It got better once we learned that I’m pregnant. I started eating plainer foods at regular intervals, and it seemed to help,” I explain, flushing. It’s odd to talk about my pregnancy in front of my dad. We had danced around the issue during our video chats, with Dad gruffly asking after my health and me brushing off his inquiries. I know he hates the fact that I’m pregnant at my age, and despises the whole situation with Julian. My mom probably feels the same, but she’s much more diplomatic about it.

“I hope you can eat tonight,” my mom says worriedly. “Your dad and I prepared a lot of food.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage, Mom.” Smiling, I sit down in the chair Julian pulls out for me. “Everything looks delicious.”

And it’s true. My parents have outdone themselves. The table has everything from my dad’s rosemary chicken—a recipe he only uses for special occasions—to my grandmother’s tamales and my favorite dish of roasted lamb chops. It’s a feast, and my stomach growls in appreciation at the delicious smells emanating from the glass-covered platters.