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❧ sometimes all you need is a hug from your big brother ❧
≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫
July 17th, 1953
The dining room of the Everhart household was an exercise in controlled elegance. A heavy mahogany table, polished to gleam, stretched through the center of the room, its surface gleaming under the soft light of the chandelier overhead. The floral-patterned wallpaper, faded slightly from years of sunlight, framed the room in muted tones of gold and green.
Amalie sat at one end of the table, feeling the weight of the evening settle over her. It was her 18th birthday—an occasion that felt more like an obligation than a celebration. To her left sat her mother, Nancy, her posture as straight and proper as always. She wore a neat, pale blue dress, her dark hair pulled into a tidy bun at the nape of her neck. Next to her, Arthur, Amalie's father, was nearly her mirror image. He, too, sat rigidly, his fingers laced neatly in front of him, his steel-gray suit pressed to perfection. It was a strange thing, Amalie thought, how alike her parents were. They moved in sync, spoke in the same clipped, measured tones, and even their rare smiles were identical—a slight, polite upturn of the lips that never quite reached their eyes.
Her brother, Oliver, on the other hand, was a different story altogether. Sitting to Amalie's right, he was slouched casually in his chair, one elbow propped on the armrest as he reached for a roll. His dark hair fell into his eyes in an unruly mess that he hadn't bothered to fix, and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to the elbows, revealing the faint traces of ink stains on his wrists from some project he'd been working on earlier.
"I guess you're officially a grown-up now, huh, Mals?" Oliver said, using the nickname he'd given her years ago, back when they were kids.
Amalie shrugged, trying to smile. "I guess."
"Well, don't be too excited," Oliver teased, leaning over conspiratorially. "Being an adult is mostly about pretending you know what you're doing while secretly wishing you could take a nap."
"Oliver," Nancy said sharply, her eyes cutting toward him in disapproval. "Honestly, it's her birthday. Can't you be serious for once?"
Oliver leaned back in his chair, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "Hey, I'm serious!" He gestured toward the spread of food—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans sauteed with almonds, and the rich scent of gravy that filled the room. "I mean, look at this! Can we talk about how amazing this looks? It's a miracle we didn't just throw Amalie a cake and call it a night."
