Lunch was simple — rice still steaming, fried fish crackling, vegetables simmered in coconut milk.

  A meal from childhood, filled with flavors Seraphine remembered but had never enjoyed.

  The girl from earlier dropped into a seat at the table, hair damp with sweat from errands, cheeks flushed from helping in the kitchen.

  Seraphine’s aunt beamed, happy to have a full table again.

  “This is Lani,” she said proudly. “Neighbor’s daughter. She helps us sometimes. We give her a little allowance, for school.”

  Seraphine smiled at the girl. “That’s kind of you. And helpful.”

  The uncle chewed quietly, fork scraping slowly against his plate.

  Lani spoke without hesitation — too young to notice tension in a room.

  “My older sister used to do this before,” she said brightly, mimicking her sister’s motions, passing dishes like she’d watched it done a hundred times.

  “Oh? Why did she stop?” Seraphine asked, voice light, curious, hand steady around her spoon.

  Before the girl could answer, the aunt sighed, shaking her head with a mix of affection and disappointment.

  “Pregnant at sixteen,” she explained. “Dropped out of school.”

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  Seraphine paused — not visibly, but internally, like a quiet bomb ticking.

  “Oh,” she said softly, nod gentle. “I see.”

  She turned her gaze to Lani.

  “And the boyfriend? Is he not around?”

  Lani shrugged, take-it-or-leave-it. “Sis never said. She keeps it secret.”

  The aunt leaned closer, lowering her voice as if gossiping, though the truth felt heavier than that.

  “The child will be turning two this year.”

  Seraphine blinked slowly. Her lips lifted in an almost-smile. “That long,” she echoed quietly.

  She set her fork down, carefully, so as not to rattle.

  Then her eyes slid— just for a moment— to her uncle.

  Not accusing. Not confrontational. Just seeing him.

  “Whoever that boyfriend was,” she said, breezy, conversational, no edge in her tone whatsoever, “He really wasn’t very careful, don’t you think, Uncle?”

  The uncle coughed violently, hand flying to his chest. He reached for water with a trembling hand, nodding rapidly, eyes nowhere near hers.

  Lani kept eating, oblivious.

  The aunt clucked and patted her husband’s back, telling him to eat slowly.

  Seraphine just smiled and took another bite.

  Inside? She was shaking with fury.

  12 years ago, she would have hidden under a bed.

  10 years ago, she might have cried in silence.

  8 years ago, she would have fled this table.

  Now?

  Now she sat and watched predators choke on their own history, on truth no one but her knew how to name.

  Her uncle felt the temperature change — not in the room, but in her.

  His hands, once steady, now fumbled over simple motions. He chewed too fast. He swallowed too hard. He didn’t dare look up.

  Because a girl he thought he molded into silence was now looking at him like a ledger waiting to be balanced.

  Seraphine took a sip of water, composure perfect.

  “That girl must miss her youth,” she added, eyes still on her plate. “It’s a shame some men ruin it for them.”

  And though she said nothing else, her uncle knew: she wasn’t talking about Lani’s sister.

  She was talking about every girl he ever touched, ever groomed, ever seen as prey.

  And lunch, suddenly, felt like the longest meal of his life.