Over dinner at the bistro, Alice chattered about school and friends, the conversation mercifully shifting to lighter things.

I listened closely, memorizing her expressions, the way she talked with her hands just like my husband always had, her infectious laugh when the waiter did a small magic trick with her napkin.

This child was what mattered.

Not the money, not the house, not even the principle of the thing—though that certainly fueled my resolve.

Alice deserved better than parents who saw her as an accessory to their lifestyle, who planned to ship her off to boarding school while they enjoyed the fruits of their scheme.

As promised, we ordered the chocolate lava cake, watching with appropriate awe as the warm center flowed out when Alice broke the surface with her spoon.