ISABELLA'S POV Michael’s parents turned out to be nothing like the stiff, formal figures I had imagined. Instead, they were warm, lively, and welcoming. Michael's father, in the typical playful manner he had projected himself for the last few minutes, was the first to bring up the idea of games after lunch. “I bet none of you can beat me at charades,” he announced, puffing up his chest. His wife rolled her eyes but smiled fondly. “Oh, please, Richard. You can’t even act out a frying pan properly.” She teased, making all of us burst into laughter. As the game began, I found myself swept up in their playful banter, the tension I had felt earlier melting away. Michael’s dad's exaggerated gestures during his turn were so comically absurd that even Michael, usually so composed, doubled over with laughter. At one point, his father tried mimicking a bird, flapping his arms wildly while making awkward squawking noises. “That’s supposed to be a penguin?” I asked, trying and fail
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