“Claire,” she said, using that careful tone she always used when she wanted to insult me politely, “your sister’s boyfriend will be there.”
“Okay,” I said.
“He’s Senator Wallace’s son. There will be important people attending. Your father doesn’t want any… awkwardness.”
I looked over at Emma, who was drawing a purple dog with wings.
“What awkwardness?”
Mom sighed. “You know what I mean. You’re a single mother. You work at a diner. You don’t exactly fit the evening.”
My chest tightened. “I’m his daughter.”
“And we love you,” she said quickly, “but this is a formal event. Your father has worked hard for his reputation.”
There it was. Reputation. The god my family worshipped.
“So you don’t want me there.”
“We don’t want you embarrassed,” she said.
I almost laughed. “No, Mom. You don’t want me seen.”
She went silent.
I hung up before she could wrap the knife in something softer.
That night, I nearly stayed home. But then Emma came out of my bedroom wearing a navy dress I had found at a thrift store, twirling like she was in a movie.
“Do I look fancy enough, Mommy?”
My throat burned.
“Yes,” I whispered. “You look perfect.”
So we went.
The hotel ballroom sparkled with chandeliers, champagne glasses, and people who measured value by surnames. The moment I walked in holding Emma’s hand, conversations slowed. My sister, Vanessa, looked at me as if I had tracked mud onto white carpet. Her boyfriend, Grant Wallace, lifted one eyebrow.
Then my father saw me.
His smile disappeared.
