Out of spite, I turned on the TV. They were on the news.
A live segment from the Luciana Hotel.
Cameras panned across crystal chandeliers and violin quartets. There they were—Elizabeth in her fur shawl. Edmund beside her. My son and his wife smiling like politicians. Lyle and Nash sipping soda in a tiny tuxedo.
The reporter called it: “A private Morroco gathering—Elizabeth’s homecoming. The family behind one of the largest shipping fortunes in the country.”
I was not in the shot. Not in the credits.
Not even in the whispers.
They toasted champagne. I sipped stale coffee.
They laughed under golden light. I wiped a smudge off the glass door.
And just when I thought it couldn’t cut deeper, the camera caught a brief, brutal moment:
Elizabeth leaned toward Edmund, whispered something, and they both laughed.
My son chuckled too. I didn’t know what she said. But I knew it was about me.
I felt it in my teeth.
***
Hours later, just after midnight, the door opened again. I turned. Hoped, stupidly, it might be my son. But no—it was them.