The Week Before the Change
Dinner at home always tasted like love, no matter what mood you brought to the table. My mother could take the simplest ingredients rice, herbs, a squeeze of lemon and somehow make it taste like belonging. But tonight, even her best couldn't fix the ache sitting in my chest.
The kitchen smelled of roasted garlic and thyme, candles flickering against the old vineyard walls. My father's laughter filled the air as he poured his wine into delicate glasses. My mother, Alma, hummed softly while arranging salad leaves like it was an art piece.
And me? I was just sitting there, trying not to look like a failed dream in lipstick.
"Habibti," my mother's soft accent wrapped around the word like honey. "You've barely touched your food."
I forced a small smile, poking my fork at the rice. "Just tired, Mama."
Her eyes dark, wise, and a little too knowing narrowed. "Noor Elsa Bayender," she said slowly, "you only call me 'Mama' when you're sad."
My father chuckled, sipping his wine. "She got that from you, Alma. Always thinks emotions are secrets."
I sighed, giving up the act. "The loan didn't go through," I murmured.
The clinking of cutlery stopped. Even the candle flame seemed to listen.
"Oh, sweetheart…" Alma's voice dropped to a whisper. "Come here."
I stood, and she pulled me into her arms, holding me so tightly it almost hurt but in the way hugs are supposed to hurt, the way they remind you you're safe even when you're breaking.
My father's hand reached across the table and covered mine. "You'll get there, Noor. You have something that can't be denied. You've got your mother's fire."
"And your stubbornness," Alma added with a soft laugh, pressing a kiss to my temple.
I wanted to believe them. I really did. But dreams don't pay rent, and ambition doesn't impress bankers. "It's just… I worked so hard. I thought maybe this time…" My voice cracked, the rest of the sentence drowning in silence.
My father reached for the bottle and poured a small glass for me a family tradition for bad days. His Sunberry Reserve. Deep ruby, smells like summer and second chances.
He lifted his glass, eyes warm. "To persistence."
I clinked mine against his, even though my heart felt heavy. "To persistence," I echoed softly.
For a while, we ate in quiet comfort. The vineyard lights glowed through the kitchen window hundreds of little gold dots stretching across the hills, swaying with the evening breeze. It looked like a dream caught in the dark.
Then, my mother cleared her throat gently. "There's something we wanted to tell you."
I looked up, half-expecting another lecture about focusing on the vineyard instead of lattes and foam art. But her expression was softer nervous, even.
She glanced at my father, who gave her a nod.
Alma smiled, brushing her hair behind her ear. "Your father and I are going away for a while."
I blinked. "Away? Like... a vacation?"
Gordon chuckled. "More like a retreat. A couples' retreat in Kuwait."
"Kuwait?" I repeated, blinking faster. "For how long?"
"About a year," my mother said, her tone gentle but steady. "We need it, habibti. We've spent so many years working, raising you, building the vineyard. We need time to rest… and to find each other again."
My fork clattered softly against the plate. "A year?"
They both nodded.
I leaned back in my chair, trying to process it. The vineyard. The shop. Their absence. The idea of the house without their laughter made my stomach twist.
"But who's going to handle the vineyard?" I asked.
"You will," my father said simply, smiling with quiet confidence. "The managers already know their duties, but they'll need supervision. You've watched us do it all your life, Noor. You're capable."
I laughed weakly. "Dad, I can make a perfect heart on a latte, not handle an entire vineyard."
He grinned. "You can do both. We raised you to multitask."
My mother reached out, placing her hand over mine. "We'll call, of course. Every week. And if there's any problem anything at all you reach out. Promise me?"
I nodded, though my throat felt tight. "I promise."
She smiled softly, her eyes shining with pride and something else maybe guilt. "You've always been brave, my Noor. I want you to use this time to build your dream. Don't let small failures stop you. Even broken wings can still remember how to fly."
Her words landed deep. My mother had this way of talking soft, poetic, but sharp enough to wake your spirit.
We talked late into the night. My father told stories of their early years how he met Alma at a club in Kuwait when she was dancing to an old Arabic song, how she refused to give him her number until he promised to write her a poem. He wrote three.
By the time I helped clear the dishes, my chest was a mix of pride, fear, and bittersweet love.
As I washed the plates, I watched them laugh in the living room her head resting on his shoulder, his eyes twinkling like he'd found the meaning of life right there. They'd been through so much money struggles, cultural differences, countless harvest seasons and still, they looked at each other like newlyweds.
Maybe that's what love was supposed to look like.
When everything was quiet, I stepped out to the porch. The air smelled like grapes and distant rain. Fireflies flickered between the vines like scattered stars.
My phone buzzed with a notification a reminder from Eiry about some "mystery man in a suit" who'd visited my café.
I smiled faintly, typing back: Probably just a customer.
But part of me wondered. The way he'd looked at me… the quiet intensity of it. There'd been something unsettling about that moment, something that hummed under my skin.
The night wind brushed my cheek, soft and cool. I wrapped my arms around myself, gazing at the endless stretch of vineyard under the moonlight.
Everything felt still. Calm. Like the kind of peace you get right before life decides to stir the pot.
Inside, I could hear my parents talking softly words in English and Arabic blending into music. They were happy. Content. Ready to start their new chapter.
And me? I stood there with a heart full of uncertainty and a future that felt one decision away from collapsing or blooming.
I didn't know that one week from now, a man named Ethan Ellison would walk into my café again with a contract that would change everything.
But the night didn't warn me.
It just whispered through the vines, sweet and still,
like the calm before a storm.