There they were.
In Florentina’s.
Laughing. Drinking. Eating. Clinking wine glasses. My son. My husband. My father. Camille. Smiling like they were a perfect family.
Without me.
I stared at the screen, my hands trembling.
No caption. No mention. Just a perfect picture of everything I wasn’t allowed to be part of.
I had cooked for them. Served them. Loved them.
And they had forgotten me. Left me.
Again.
The tears came quietly this time. Not loud or dramatic. Just slow, tired, and steady. I didn’t sob. I didn’t scream.
I just let the ache fall from my eyes… because no one was ever going to notice.
My eyes were swollen when I woke up. I must’ve cried myself to sleep on the couch because the stiffness in my back told me I hadn’t moved all night.
And I was late.
I scrambled to my feet, realizing with horror that I hadn’t prepared breakfast—the one thing they expected from me without fail, every single day.
As I rushed into the kitchen, I heard the sharp edge of Kier’s voice from the dining room.
“Where have you been?” he snapped, seeing me step into the room. “Still sleeping at this hour? Where’s breakfast?”