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“Leaving to where?”

I pick up my water and take a slow drink, buying myself half a second.

“Greece.”

My mother’s eyes meet mine from across the table. The look lasts less than a second.

She knows I’m not going to Greece. She knows I’m flying to Italy tomorrow night, that Tristan will arrive separately the next day, and that we will both end up on an island off Sardinia where no one is supposed to find us.

Her expression remains composed.

But the faintest curve touches the corner of her mouth, like she is silently reminding me that my lies need work.

My father notices none of it. Or he notices and chooses not to address it.

“Why am I hearing about this now?” he asks.

I set my glass down. “Because I’m not twelve.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“It is the answer I’m offering to give.”

“Maksim.”

There it is.

The tone.

Not loud. Never loud.

Just firm enough that the part of me trained from childhood to listen goes tight with reflexive irritation.

“I don’t need your permission to leave the country and go on a vacation.” I manage to say.

“No one said you did.”

“You implied it.”

“I asked why you didn’t inform me.”

“Because informing you turns into you deciding whether it is allowed.”

My father’s face remains unreadable, but the air around the table shifts. Before he can answer, my mother sets her fork down neatly beside her plate.

“He told me,” She says calmly.

Every head at the table turns toward her.

My father looks at her first. “He did?”

“Yes.” She takes another calm sip of wine. “Maksim told me about his trip a few days ago.”

I try not to look grateful, but I fail. My mother catches it and gives me a subtle look that says, do not make me regret helping you.

His attention returns to me.

“Greece,” he says again, this time almost suspiciously.