Dinner had been uncomfortable from the start.

The table was set perfectly — linen napkins, polished silver, everything in place like a picture from a catalog. But the atmosphere? Fractured. Brittle.

You sat beside Lisa, your hand resting subtly on her knee under the table, offering quiet support while her parents made small talk that felt like landmines waiting to go off.

It wasn't even subtle — the questions, the commentary.

“So,” her mother began, cutting her roast with delicate precision, “have you given any more thought to settling down? You're not getting younger, darling.”

Lisa tensed. “I am settled.”

Her father snorted into his wine glass. “A job isn't a family, Lisa.”

“No one's saying quit work,” her mother added quickly, as if that were generous. “But a husband wouldn't be the worst idea. And children... we've always assumed...”

“Assumed what?” Cuddy asked, her voice sharper than she meant it to be.

“That eventually, you'd make the right kind of choice,” her father said flatly. “A man. A home. Stability.”

The fork paused in Lisa's hand.

You shifted beside her. You didn't say anything — not yet. This wasn't your fight to start. But the pressure beneath the table, the quiet squeeze of fingers, said I'm here.

Cuddy put her fork down.

“I don't want a husband,” she said clearly, cutting through the noise. “And I already have a home.”

Her mother blinked. “What does that mean?”

“It means I'm not going to pretend anymore just because it makes you more comfortable.” She exhaled sharply. “You are my partner. We live together. I love her.”

Silence.

A beat too long.

Her father's expression turned icy. “So this is what you're doing now.”

“I'm not 'doing' anything,” Cuddy said. “This is who I am. I've spent my entire life trying to meet your expectations. And I'm tired.”

Her mother pushed her plate away. “You're throwing away everything for—what? A phase? A rebellion?”