Behind her, sitting on a velvet bench with her legs dangling just above the floor, was her daughter, Lillian, barely seven years old. Her hair had been styled perfectly by a professional earlier that afternoon, and her shoes were so polished they reflected the ceiling lights. She watched her mother with quiet attention, absorbing everything without comment. Children did not learn from lectures. They learned from observation. And Lillian was learning very quickly what mattered in her world.
“Mom,” she said after a moment, crossing her arms in a gesture that mimicked Vanessa almost exactly. “Will you stay long enough to see the dress I picked for tomorrow.”
Vanessa did not turn around.
“I have a dinner,” she replied calmly, already reaching for her clutch. “Your father will handle it.”
“But I want it tonight,” Lillian insisted, her voice firm rather than pleading. “I want the one with the silver embroidery.”
“You will have it,” Vanessa said, irritation creeping into her tone. “And do not sulk. There is no reason to cry over things that can be bought.”