Raka had always said family wasn't just about blood.
"Sometimes," he once told Nayla, "your real family is the one that shows up for the version of you that nobody claps for."
She hadn't understood what that meant until today.
It started with a text from Raka early in the morning.
"Can you come with me today? It's just a small lunch with my mom and sisters. Nothing formal. No pressure."
Nayla stared at the message for longer than necessary.
Meeting someone's family wasn't small. It was loud. It was vulnerable. It was a risk.
Still, she typed back:
"I'll be there."
—
She wore soft colors. Beige blouse, black pants. Nothing flashy, but neat enough to say I care without screaming I'm trying too hard.
Raka picked her up in his car, grinning like a proud idiot.
"You're nervous," he said.
"I'm terrified," she replied.
"They'll love you."
"They don't even know me."
"They will."
She gave him a look. "Don't overpromise."
—
His mom lived in a quiet part of town in a house that smelled like lemongrass and old books. The kind of home where slippers were placed neatly by the door and photo frames lined the hallway.
Raka's two sisters were already there, one older, one younger, both extroverted in different flavors.
They greeted Nayla with polite warmth and curious smiles. Not cold. Not overbearing. Just observant.
His mom, a petite woman with silver streaks in her hair and kind eyes, served up a table full of homemade dishes. Fish curry. Stir-fried tofu. Banana fritters are still warm from the pan.
"Eat," she said to Nayla, handing her a spoon. "You're too thin. Raka's feeding you nothing."
"I'm trying," Raka muttered.
Nayla smiled, surprisingly at ease. "I eat better around him."
His mom looked pleased.
Throughout lunch, Nayla spoke when she had something to say. She didn't fake small talk. She didn't laugh if she didn't mean it. But she asked about the family cat. She complimented the food. She helped clear the plates.
She was herself.
And somehow, that was enough.
Later, as Raka drove her back, he glanced over. "So?"
"That was... not terrible," she admitted.
He laughed. "You crushed it."
"I didn't do anything."
"Exactly. You didn't try to be someone else. They loved that."
She turned to look at him. "You're lucky. Your family makes space for people."
"Yeah," he said. "And they saw how I look at you. That's all they needed."
She didn't reply, but her fingers found him on the gearshift.
When she got home, she opened her journal, the one he'd given her, and wrote:
Today I met the kind of family I didn't know existed. The kind that made room for silence, that didn't ask for performance. Maybe love is too space where you don't have to shrink, or shout, or shape-shift. Maybe family, like love, is something you learn to believe in again.
She closed the journal gently.
Maybe she had been building a home with Raka all this time.
And today, she stepped inside its doorway.