That morning, she chose her sparkly blue dress with flutter sleeves and a satin ribbon at the back.
“I want to look nice for the pictures,” she said.
We dropped her off at noon. Michael and I planned to have lunch at our favorite Italian café and take a stroll by the pier. David and his wife, Anna, welcomed us warmly. Laughter from the kids spilled into the backyard. We kissed Sophie goodbye, reminded her to wash her hands before eating, and left.
Forty-five minutes later, my phone rang. Sophie’s name lit up the screen. She didn’t have her own phone, but carried Michael’s spare for emergencies.
I answered instantly, putting it on speaker. Her voice was small, trembling.
“Mommy? Can you come get me? Grandma said I have to go outside. She said… I’m not part of the family.”
I froze. “Where are you, baby?”
“In the backyard, by the gate. I don’t want to go to the sidewalk.”
“We’re coming,” Michael said firmly.
We arrived in ten minutes. Before the car had fully stopped, I was out. Sophie stood near the fence, clutching her gold-wrapped gift like it was the only thing keeping her steady. Her cheeks were blotchy, eyes swollen, and the hem of her dress was streaked with grass stains.
Michael rushed to her, kneeling in the grass.
“Sophie,” he breathed, pulling her close. She collapsed into his arms, sobbing into his shirt.
