Margaret, without missing a beat, said, “They’re just necklaces, sweetheart. What matters is how we treat people.”
Lily frowned. “Okay.”
Margaret stood and met my eyes, and something passed between us—an unspoken agreement that she was not going to let her world swallow my child.
Inside, the luncheon unfolded like a choreographed performance. The same faces, the same laughter that always sounded slightly too loud, the same compliments that didn’t require sincerity.
Beatrice approached within minutes.
“Sarah,” she said, smile sharp. “You look well.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Beatrice’s gaze drifted to Lily. “And this must be little Lily. She’s growing up so quickly. Such a… sweet dress.”
The pause before sweet was the whole insult.
Lily, blessedly unaware, pointed at Beatrice’s hat. “Why do you have a bird on your head?”
Beatrice blinked. “It’s a fascinator.”
Lily’s eyes widened. “It’s fascinating.”
David coughed once, suspiciously like a laugh.
Beatrice’s smile tightened. “Children are so honest.”
“Yes,” Margaret said from beside us, her tone smooth. “It’s refreshing.”