We arrived, and for a while, the day held small joys: Adrian’s eyes lighting up at the carousel, the way he insisted on riding the tiny trains with me, the sticky traces of cotton candy smeared across his cheeks.
For him, the world was still full of bright possibilities. Watching him laugh felt like a fleeting theft from the nightmare I’d been living.
Livia hovered nearby, practiced and maternal. She took pictures, bought him one toy soldier and then another, and Adrian responded with that unfiltered warmth children reserve for anyone who gives them treats and attention.
“Livia! Look! You’re my favorite!” he shouted, his tone pure and bright.
My stomach twisted. Not just jealousy, but molten anger coiling hot and tight. This woman wore my money around her neck and my husband on her arm, and my son thought she was a safe harbor.
I kept my face neutral, pretending I didn’t understand their silent language, keeping the day from erupting into the confrontation I had been holding in check.
My phone buzzed—it was my butler. I stepped away from the crowd to answer, giving them space.