I stood near the edge of the ballroom, invisible by design, wearing my slate-colored uniform with hands folded neatly at my waist, my posture practiced after years of being seen without being acknowledged, while Manhattan’s elite laughed beneath chandeliers imported from Milan and toasted with champagne older than some of their marriages.
To them, I was just Mara Ellis, the woman who ensured napkins were folded correctly and glasses never went empty.
But to the small child trembling behind the velvet drapes near the terrace doors, I was her entire sense of safety.
“Mara?” a whisper floated out, barely audible beneath the quartet’s music.
I turned, already knowing who it would be.
Elena.
Six years old, too quiet for her age, with dark curls that refused to behave and eyes that carried a depth no child should have so early in life, she stepped toward me clutching the hem of her powder-blue dress, the fabric wrinkled from nervous fingers.
“They’re loud,” she murmured, her lower lip trembling, “and she said I ruined the pictures.”
I knelt immediately, ignoring the sharp glance from the event coordinator, lowering myself until we were eye to eye.
