And because Sophie had already picked the vase before we left home.
“The blue one, Daddy,” she had told me that morning, standing by the kitchen island with cereal on her chin. “Mommy liked blue.”
So there I was, exhausted, quiet, trying not to wake my child, hoping for nothing more dramatic than a key card and a bed.
Instead, I got Claire.
Her name tag was polished gold.
Her smile was not.
She was tall, blonde, expensive-looking, with a navy blazer sharp enough to cut bread. She looked me over the way some people inspect a stain.
Jacket. Outerwear
Messy hair.
Sleeping kid.
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