Dana burst inside. The room fell silent. Not just because of her mud-caked boots and filthy clothes, but because the girl standing there was clearly no more than eight or nine years old. Dana walked to the center of the room and screamed, her voice tearing through the luxury: “HOW CAN YOU CELEBRATE AFTER THROWING A BABY IN THE TRASH?!”
Chaos erupted. Olivia screamed for security, calling Dana a lunatic. Guards grabbed her—a small girl trembling with rage and fear, still shielding the baby in her arms. Desperate, Dana reached into her pocket and threw the chain. It landed at Elizabeth’s feet.
Elizabeth looked down. Then she looked at the baby in her arms. His neck was bare. The world stopped.
The truth poured out. Olivia confessed—envy, the switch, the abandonment. There was no regret, only hatred. Then Dana spoke—her voice low, steady, and unstoppable. “I have nothing. I slept in a wet box. I went hungry to buy milk. I am poorer than all of you… but I would never hurt a child for money. Poverty doesn’t make you cruel. The choice does.”