Chapter 2

Jane's POV

I sat frozen in the driver's seat, my hand still resting on the window.

After Beatrice made that remark, the girl who had laughed at me didn't let it go.

She walked over to my car and looked me up and down. Then she dramatically waved a hand in front of her nose, as if she'd caught a terrible smell.

"I knew it," she said, turning to the other girl. "How could Beatrice's mom possibly drive a car like this and look like she hasn't slept in days? Our moms even match their nail polish to their handbags. This woman couldn't even hold their shoes!"

Beatrice didn't defend me.

The other girl covered her mouth and giggled. Her eyes held that particular kind of innocent cruelty that seemed to come so naturally to children from wealthy families.

"Seriously. Look at her hair. It looks like she hasn't washed it in three days. Beatrice, your family must have really lowered its standards for hiring housekeepers."

"Enough. That's an adult matter." Beatrice finally interrupted them impatiently. "I'm leaving."

My hand slipped from the window and tightened around the steering wheel.

Beatrice waved goodbye to the girls and walked toward my car. But when she reached the passenger door, she didn't immediately get in.

Instead, she glanced in both directions, making sure no one she knew was nearby, before opening the door and climbing inside.

"Let's go," she said flatly.

I pulled away from the curb.

One intersection passed. Then another.

Beatrice kept her face turned toward the window, clutching her dance bag tightly against her chest.

"Beatrice," I finally said.

"Why did you say that back there?"

Silence.

"Beatrice! I'm talking to you!"

She finally answered without turning around.

"What?"

"Why did you tell them I was the housekeeper?"

Her shoulders stiffened. After a moment, she spoke.

"Can you please stop picking me up from now on?"

My hands tightened around the steering wheel.

"What?"

"Let the driver come instead. Or someone else."

"I'm your mother."

Beatrice finally turned to look at me. Her eyes traveled from my head to my feet, lingering on my clothes before she looked away.

"What are you wearing?"

I glanced down at myself. A sweatshirt, jeans, and flat shoes. They were all clean, just a little wrinkled.

"You always look so tired," Beatrice said.

I opened my mouth.

I wanted to tell her it was because I was carrying her little brother or sister, that I spent every day throwing up and every night struggling to get enough sleep.

But the words never came out.

"Miss Zoe is different," Beatrice continued. There was a judgmental edge to her voice that no eight-year-old should have had. "She wears a different dress every day. Her hair always looks pretty, and she smells nice. Blair says she wants to be just like Miss Zoe when she grows up."

A tear slipped down my cheek. I quickly wiped it away with the back of my hand.

When we got home, Beatrice went straight to her bedroom and shut the door.

I stood in the living room for a long time, staring at the mirror in the hallway.

Was that really me?

My hair was a mess, loose strands sticking out in every direction. My face was pale, my skin sallow. The collar of my sweatshirt had stretched out, and a few threads were coming loose at the cuffs.

My own daughter was ashamed of me.

She would rather call me the housekeeper than admit I was her mother.

I walked into the bedroom and opened the closet.

It was filled with the clothes I'd worn years ago. Dresses, tailored suits, high heels. Bright colors and delicate fabrics.

I reached out and touched the sleeve of one dress. The silk felt cool and smooth beneath my fingertips.

How long had it been since I'd worn any of these?

My phone rang.

It was a message from Matthew.

Come home early tonight. There's something I need to discuss with you.

I put my phone down, glanced at the closet one last time, and closed the door.

It was already dark when Matthew returned.

I heard the front door and walked out of the kitchen. He was changing his shoes in the entryway, his phone still in his hand as he spoke to someone.

The moment he saw me, he hung up.

"You're still awake?"

"I was waiting for you. Didn't you say you had something to tell me?"

"Yes." He nodded. "You picked Beatrice up from dance class today?"

I nodded.

"Why?"

"No... nothing." He put his phone down and sat on the sofa.

I followed him and took a seat opposite him.

He glanced at me, quickly looked away, and cleared his throat.

"There's something I wanted to tell you," he said. "It's good news."

I said nothing.

"Beatrice has an opportunity." His voice suddenly brightened. "A residential dance summer camp in Montana. There's a prestigious dance academy there that runs an intensive program every summer. This year, they're making an exception and accepting younger students. There are only five spots available across the entire West Coast."

"How long?"

"Three months. It'll cover the entire summer vacation. They have the best instructors, and the training is extremely professional. Zoe says this could really help Beatrice when she applies to prestigious private schools in the future." He paused. "You know how much those schools value extracurricular achievements."

I remained silent.

"I know three months sounds like a long time, but—"

"When did this come up?"

Matthew blinked.

"What?"

"When did Beatrice tell you about it?"

"Two weeks ago." He answered quickly. "We've been discussing it ever since. I wanted to wait until everything was confirmed before telling you."

Two weeks ago.

That was when I'd been so sick I could barely get out of bed.

I stood up and walked toward the staircase. Helen happened to be passing through the hallway.

"Please ask Beatrice to come downstairs."

Helen nodded and went upstairs.

A moment later, Beatrice entered the living room and stood between us, nervously twisting her hands together.

"Your father says you have a summer camp opportunity," I said. "In Montana."

I looked directly at her.

"Do you know about this?"