At exactly 8:44 p.m., I stood with Noah and Sophie in the quiet corridor outside the Sullivan Group ballroom.
Through the closed doors came the muffled sound of laughter, piano music, and the steady hum of Chicago’s most influential people congratulating themselves beneath crystal chandeliers.
Sophie smoothed the skirt of her blue dress.
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“Is the glitter too much?”
“No,” I said. “It’s exactly enough.”
Noah glanced at the gold watch on his wrist—the one he had borrowed from Lucas for the evening.
“According to the schedule, Dad starts his speech in forty-six seconds.”
“You don’t have to call him Dad.”
Noah looked at me.
“He is our biological father. I’m not calling him Mr. Sullivan unless he earns something more personal.”
Lucas, standing near the doors with a discreet earpiece and a folder beneath his arm, gave him an approving nod.
“You’ve been waiting ten years to say that, haven’t you?”
“Not exactly.” Noah adjusted his glasses. “I only learned the phrase last week.”
Sophie reached for my hand.
“Mom?”
I looked down at her.
“What if he doesn’t want us?”
The question was soft enough to break my heart.
I crouched in front of her, careful not to smudge the tiny silver stars she had asked Aunt Maribel to paint near the corners of her eyes.