“Sweetheart,” Vanessa said, in a voice sweet enough to hide the insult, “why don’t you sit over there for a bit? The birthday table is full.” She pointed to the side of the patio, where a single folding chair stood beside two black garbage bags.

Mia looked at the decorated table. Several chairs were empty. “But—”

“Mia,” Vanessa said, her smile tightening, “don’t make this awkward.”

A boy laughed. Then Sloane announced, loud enough to carry, “Poor kids sit by the trash.”

Someone else added, “Her mom’s just a nurse.”

“Lowly nurse,” Sloane corrected, giggling.

Mia’s cheeks went red. She sat, because the adults were watching and not one of them said she shouldn’t. She set Parker’s present on her lap and looked at her white sandals while the tears came.

Elena had gone into the kitchen to help wash dishes — trying to be useful in a house where no one treated her like family. When she came back to the patio and saw her daughter beside the trash, the towel slipped from her hand.

“What is going on?”

Vanessa turned slowly. “Don’t be dramatic. Children tease.”

Before Elena could answer, the whole backyard went silent.

Margaret Whitmore stood in the open French doors. At eighty-one she had pearl-colored hair, sharp eyes, and more wealth than every other guest at the party combined. She had heard enough.