Her stomach growled loudly when she passed a shelf of cookies. For one second, she stared.
The baby whimpered.
She clenched her jaw. “You’ll survive,” she muttered to herself.
At the register, she counted coin by coin.
Fifty cents short.
The clerk sighed, ready to pull the formula back.
Then he looked at her face—mud-streaked, exhausted, far too young to carry something so heavy.
“Just go,” he muttered, pushing it toward her.
She ran before he could change his mind.
That night, in her damp cardboard shelter, Lily fed the baby. He drank desperately, as if he knew how close he had come to disappearing.
He slept.
She didn’t.
Clutching the silver chain, she whispered into the darkness, “Tomorrow, we’re going to that big house.”
By morning, the storm had cleared.
After hours of walking, Lily reached the wealthy hills.
The Willoughby mansion towered over manicured lawns and fountains.
But what stunned her wasn’t the size.
It was the celebration.
Luxury cars lined the driveway. White and gold balloons floated above the entrance. Music drifted across the lawn.
A sign read:
WELCOME, NOAH WILLOUGHBY
A baby celebration.
While the real child had nearly frozen to death in trash.
Anger burned through Lily’s fear.