The familiar scent of Pop-Pop Moe's house hits me the moment we step through the door – a mixture of old books, sea air, and whatever Aunt Rebecca's been cooking. It's comforting, in a way, like slipping on a favorite sweater. But there's an undercurrent of tension that even the warm, homey smell can't quite mask.

As we make our way up the wooden stairs to the second floor, I can hear the muffled sounds of conversation and the clinking of dishes. My stomach does a little flip, part excitement and part nerves. It's been a while since we've all been together like this, and after everything that's happened... well, let's just say I'm not sure what to expect.

We emerge into the dining room, and suddenly we're surrounded by family. Aunt Rebecca swoops in for hugs, her long fingers patting my back affectionately. "Sam, sweetie! Look at you, all grown up. And Rachel, Ben, so good to see you both."

I catch a glimpse of Abigail over Aunt Rebecca's shoulder and have to stifle a gasp. My cousin's face is a patchwork of fading bruises, with a nasty-looking cut above her left eyebrow. She catches my eye and gives a tiny shake of her head, a clear "don't ask" signal. I swallow hard and paste on a smile.

"Hey, Abby," I say, trying to keep my voice light. "Love the new look. Very punk rock."

She snorts, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, you should see the other guys."

Uncle Aaron clears his throat loudly, shooting Abigail a warning look. "So, uh, how about those Phillies, huh? Think they've got a shot at the pennant this year?"

And just like that, we're off to the races with the world's most awkward small talk. Jake mumbles something about drone photography while Uncle Shelly launches into a rant about the rising cost of lumber. I nod and smile in all the right places, but I can't shake the feeling that we're all just going through the motions, pretending everything's normal when it's anything but.

Pop-Pop Moe's voice cuts through the chatter, steady and familiar. "Alright, everyone, enough with the small talk. Let's get started with the candle lighting."

We gather around the vast dining table, its old and new sections joined together like some kind of furniture Frankenstein's monster. The white tablecloth gleams in the soft candlelight, and I can see my distorted reflection in the good silverware. Pop-Pop strikes a match, the sudden flare of light making everyone blink.

As he lights the candles, I look around at my family. Mom's already eyeing the wine bottles with a little too much interest. Dad's doing that thing where he tries to make himself as small as possible, like he's hoping no one will notice him. Aunt Linda's fussing with her jewelry, probably planning her next flea market in her head.

And then there's Jake, weirdly quiet, just watching and eating some chips from a bowl. He's even taller than last year, if that's possible, and he's starting to grow this scruffy attempt at a beard that makes him look like he's cosplaying as a twelve-year old lumberjack.

Pop-Pop's voice fills the room as he recites the blessing: "Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha-olam, asher kid'shanu b'mitzvotav v'tzivanu l'hadlik ner shel yom tov."

There's a chorus of "Amens," and for a moment, everything feels almost normal. Almost.

Uncle Shelly steps up next, clearing his throat like he's about to give a speech at a union rally. His gruff voice rumbles through the Kiddush: "Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha-olam, borei p'ri hagafen."

As we move on to hand washing, I can't help but notice the little dance everyone's doing to avoid touching Abigail or looking directly at her injuries. It's like we're all playing some bizarre game of "The Floor is Lava," except the lava is acknowledging that one of us got the crap beaten out of her somewhere. It just makes me wonder where even more - a protest? A bar fight? Did she, too, come on the wrong end of some security officers? That seems like something she'd do. I think it runs in the family.

"So," Uncle Aaron says as we're drying our hands, his voice a little too loud, a little too cheerful. "How about that weather we've been having in Philly, huh? Crazy stuff."

Mom snorts into her newly acquired wine glass. "Oh yeah, real crazy. Nothing like a little martial law to spice up your morning commute."

Dad winces, shooting Mom a look. "Rachel, honey, maybe we could talk about something else?"

"What?" Mom says, taking another sip of wine. "I'm just making conversation. Isn't that what we're supposed to do? Pretend everything's fine and dandy while the world's going to hell in a handbasket?"

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Pop-Pop Moe clears his throat, loudly. "Alright, let's bless the challah, shall we?"

He picks up the braided loaf, his hands shaking slightly. I wonder if it's age or nerves. Maybe both. "Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha-olam, hamotzi lechem min ha'aretz."

We all mumble "Amen" again, and then it's time for the apples and honey. As we pass the plate around, I watch Abigail wince as she reaches for a slice. She catches me looking and raises an eyebrow, daring me to say something. I don't.

"So, Jake," Aunt Rebecca says, her voice a little too bright. "Tell us about your latest drone adventures. Captured any exciting footage lately?"

Jake shrugs, mumbling around a mouthful of apple. "S'alright. Got some cool shots of the boardwalk at sunrise. Might use 'em for my portfolio."

"That's wonderful, dear," Aunt Rebecca beams. "You know, I always thought you had an eye for composition. Remember that macaroni art you made in second grade? It was just..."

As Aunt Rebecca launches into a detailed recollection of Jake's elementary school artistic achievements, I take a moment to survey the scene. It's like watching a play where all the actors have forgotten their lines and are just improvising wildly, hoping no one notices.

Uncle Aaron's regaling Dad with some thrilling tale about tax deductions. Aunt Linda's explaining her latest jewelry design to Mom, who's nodding along while eyeing the wine bottle for a refill. Pop-Pop Moe's just sitting there, a small smile on his face, like he's enjoying some private joke.

And me? I'm just trying to figure out how we got here. How we went from last year's Rosh Hashanah, where the biggest drama was whether Jake would get caught sneaking an extra slice of brisket, to... this. Whatever this is. Where the tension is sitting on my shoulders so hard it feels like it's going to break my spine.

As the meal officially begins and dishes start getting passed around, the conversation bounces from topic to topic like a pinball machine on the fritz.

"Did you hear about that new fusion restaurant downtown?" Aunt Rebecca asks, spooning some tzimmes onto her plate. "They're doing this thing with gefilte fish tacos. Can you imagine?"

Uncle Shelly grunts, stabbing a piece of brisket with perhaps more force than strictly necessary. "Gefilte fish tacos? What's next, kugel burritos? Whatever happened to good old-fashioned Jewish cooking?"

"Oh, come on, Shell," Aunt Rebecca says, rolling her eyes. "Don't be such a fuddy-duddy. It's fusion! It's hip!"

"Hip?" Uncle Shelly snorts. "I'll tell you what's hip. A good, solid piece of hardware. You know how many people came into the store last week looking for those fancy smart doorbells? I told 'em, you want security? Get a good old-fashioned deadbolt. That'll keep the riffraff out."

I catch Abigail's eye across the table and we both have to stifle a laugh. Classic Uncle Shelly, turning every conversation into a commercial for Small & Sons Hardware.

"Speaking of security," Uncle Aaron chimes in, "did you see the latest projections for the defense industry? With all this unrest, their stocks are going through the roof. It's a smart investment, if you ask me."

Dad shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "I don't know if I'd feel right profiting off of... well, you know."

Uncle Aaron waves a hand dismissively. "It's not profiting, Ben. It's just good financial sense. You've got to think about the future, especially in times like these."

I can see Dad's jaw tightening, but before he can respond, Aunt Linda jumps in. "Oh, speaking of the future, did I tell you about my new line of anxiety-relief jewelry? It's all ethically sourced crystals and sustainable metals. I really think it could take off, what with everyone being so stressed these days."

Mom takes a long sip of wine. "Anxiety-relief jewelry? Is that like... what, a necklace that doubles as a Xanax dispenser?"

"Rachel," Dad hisses, but Mom just shrugs.

"What? I'm asking a legitimate question. Lord knows we could all use a little anxiety relief right about now," she mumbles, defeated. I hear something about needing a Xanax under her breath and I can't find myself disagreeing.

As the adults continue their dance of awkward conversation and forced normalcy, I find myself studying Jake. He's been uncharacteristically quiet all evening, picking at his food and barely looking up from his plate. Usually by now he'd be regaling us with tales of his latest urban exploration adventure or showing off drone footage on his phone.

"Hey," I say, nudging him with my elbow. "You okay? You're being weirdly... un-Jake-like."

He shrugs, pushing a piece of carrot around his plate. "Just not feeling very talkative, I guess."

"Since when?" I press. "Come on, what's up? Did something happen with your drone? Get caught in the rotors of Old Lady Friedman's ceiling fan again?"

That gets a tiny smile out of him, at least. "Nah, nothing like that. It's just..." he glances around the table, lowering his voice. "Don't you think this is all kind of... weird? Everyone pretending like everything's normal when it's so obviously not?"

I blink, surprised by the sudden burst of insight from my usually oblivious cousin. "Yeah," I admit. "It is pretty weird. But what else are we supposed to do? Start a family-wide debate on the state of metahuman rights and the rise of fascism over Aunt Rebecca's brisket?"

Jake snorts. "I mean, it'd definitely liven things up. But nah, I guess you're right. It's just... hard to care about drone photography when the world's going crazy, you know?"

I nod, feeling a sudden rush of affection for my goofy, lanky cousin. "Yeah, I know. But hey, maybe that's why it's important to care about that stuff. To remember there's still beauty out there, even when things are rough."

Jake considers this for a moment, then nods. "Yeah, maybe. Thanks, Sam. You're pretty smart for a short stack."

I roll my eyes, giving him a playful shove. "And you're pretty insightful for a beanpole. Now eat your tzimmes before Aunt Rebecca starts force-feeding you."

As I turn back to my own plate, I catch Pop-Pop Moe watching us with a small smile. He gives me a wink, and for a moment, I feel a little spark of hope. Maybe we'll get through this dinner after all. Maybe everything will be okay. Maybe it will be normal, for just a night.