A gasp passed through the room.
Your father remained seated, staring down at his plate.
That hurt more than you expected.
He had walked Isabella down the aisle with tears in his eyes. He had helped pay for the flowers, the quartet, the twelve-tier cake, the custom lighting, the hotel ballroom overlooking the harbor. But now, when his older daughter stood near the service doors with her child crying against her, he could not even raise his head.
Julian saw that too.
He turned back to Isabella.
“You told me your sister was difficult,” he said evenly. “You said Elena always needed attention. You said she brought drama everywhere. You said her son was ‘too much.’”
Mateo cried harder.
You bent down and pulled him into your arms.
“It’s okay, baby,” you whispered, though nothing in that room was okay.
Julian’s jaw tightened.
“But the first time I met Mateo,” he continued, “he asked me if lawyers helped kids who were scared. Not if I had money. Not if I liked his mother. Not if I thought he belonged. He asked if I helped scared kids.”
