The sun dipped low over the Pacific, painting the Santa Barbara horizon in shades of amber and rose. Outside the small seaside chapel, mourners drifted away in silence, their footsteps fading against the sound of crashing waves.
Nine-year-old Lila Monroe stood by the gate, clutching the hem of her black dress. Her eyes were red, her cheeks streaked with dried tears. That afternoon, she had buried her father — Jonathan Monroe, a brilliant civil engineer known for his patience, his gentle humor, and the way he made every problem seem solvable.
Lila’s mother had passed away when she was four. Her father’s second wife, Victoria, had stepped into the role of stepmother — though never once into the role of comforter.
Outside the chapel, Victoria adjusted her sunglasses and leaned toward Lila, her expression a mask of practiced indifference beneath layers of expensive foundation.
“Lila,” she said coolly, “this is where we part ways. Your father is gone. I have no obligation to raise another woman’s child.”
