It was the same way he used to look for her in the audience before he sang at his kindergarten talent shows—needing to see her face to feel safe.

Then Denise turned and walked over to Joanna, laying a heavy hand on her shoulder as if marking her territory.

“Honestly, little sister, thank you so much for being like a glorified babysitter for me all this time—but I’m here now, and it’s my turn to take over,” she whispered with a condescending smirk.

The word “babysitter” landed on Joanna like a physical slap, burning with the cruelty of a thousand small slights.

Joanna wanted to stand up, scream at the top of her lungs, and remind everyone of every sleepless night, every penny saved by skipping her own meals, every Christmas spent opening gifts wrapped in plain newspaper.

But Simon kept watching her intently from the stage, and with a subtle shift of his gaze, he seemed to be silently begging her to wait just a little longer.