We entered the ballroom. It was a vision of excess—white orchids cascading from the ceiling, pink lighting that softened the room, crystal centerpieces that caught the light. It was sophisticated, expensive, and entirely Sophia.

As I searched for our place cards, my mother, Margaret, materialized from the crowd.

“Emily, I’m so glad you came,” she said, pulling me into an embrace that felt slightly too tight, slightly too performative. Margaret was a retired elementary school teacher, a woman who wore respectability like a suit of armor.

“Of course, Mom. It’s Sophia’s special day.”

“Jacob, come to Grandma,” Margaret said, peeling him away from my leg. “I have a special toy for you.”

She produced a small, silver gift bag. From it, she pulled a bright red die-cast sports car. Jacob’s eyes, usually watchful and serious, lit up with pure, unadulterated joy.