If you'd like more focus on the within the plot

Fatime’s world was built on stability and "besa" (honor).

Luan sat in the dim light of his studio, the glowing monitor the only sun he’d seen in days. On the other side of the heavy oak door, the rhythmic clinking of silver against ceramic signaled dinner—and the conversation he was avoiding.

His mother, Fatime, didn’t understand the bass lines or the frantic poetry he scribbled into notebooks. To her, music was a ghost; it didn't put bread on the table or honor the family name like a law degree would. The Conflict