He wasn’t a wild child. He wasn’t one of those kids who ran around screaming and climbing furniture while their parents apologized and pretended they couldn’t stop him. Aiden was the kind of kid people liked—serious, bright-eyed, the kind who said “actually” a lot and corrected adults on dinosaur facts. His cheeks were flushed from excitement and sugar. His hair stuck up in that carefully messy style Jessica paid good money to maintain.
And he was looking directly at me with that solemn, earnest expression kids get when they’re repeating something they believe is true.
“Mom says you’re the help,” he announced clearly.
His voice carried. It wasn’t mumbled. It wasn’t hidden behind a giggle.
It cut clean through the clink of silverware and the murmur of conversation.
Everyone heard it.
Everyone.
And then—because apparently one knife wasn’t enough—he added, as if he were providing useful context:
“She says that’s why you don’t have nice things like us.”