The lilacs were in bloom, and the lawn looked like something out of a lifestyle magazine. White tents, linen‑covered tables, trays of shrimp and champagne weaving through a sea of polite laughter. I stood near the hydrangeas in the same navy blue dress I’d worn to my last church fundraiser, trying to look like I belonged.
Grant found me there. He looked taller than I remembered, his suit crisp, his smile bright, though it never quite reached his eyes. He leaned in to hug me, one arm around my shoulder—warm but hurried. “Enjoying the $8,000 a month, Mom?” he whispered, his breath smelling faintly of bourbon.
