I walked toward Grace.
She looked beautiful, her silver hair pinned neatly, her blue dress soft and elegant. As we stepped onto the dance floor, she whispered, “I’m so proud of you.”
The music began. We swayed slowly, just as we had practiced. I felt like a child again, guided by her steady presence.
Then a voice interrupted the moment.
“Stop. This isn’t right.”
The music faltered. Conversations died mid-sentence. Grace’s hand tightened in mine.
A woman stood near the edge of the dance floor. She appeared to be in her late fifties or early sixties, dressed elegantly but with a severity that clashed with the celebration. Her expression was sharp, determined.
“I should be dancing with him,” she declared loudly. “I’m his real mother.”
Silence spread across the room.
Grace’s fingers trembled. My heart pounded so loudly I could barely hear my own thoughts.
