As soon as I walked through the door, I knew I’d made the right decision to come looking like a woman the world wouldn’t bother to notice.

The hostess stand sat beneath a chandelier that glittered like frozen fireworks. Everything smelled expensive—truffle oil, citrus peel, warm bread, perfume that cost more than rent. Men in tailored suits laughed too loudly. Women in silk dresses leaned in close, the way people do when they’re sharing secrets they can afford.

I stepped forward in my plain navy dress, my scuffed flats, and the old canvas bag I’d carried since Daniel was in middle school. The hostess’s smile didn’t disappear, but it thinned, like she’d suddenly remembered she was human and had preferences.

“Reservation?” she asked, eyes sliding over me like I was a smudge on the glass.

“Whitman,” I said softly. “Eleanor. My son is already here.”

Her fingers hovered above the book for a beat too long.

“Whit…man,” she repeated, as if tasting the name, deciding whether it belonged in this room.

I smiled the way I smiled in boardrooms full of men who underestimated me. Patient. Pleasant. Unthreatening.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s me.”

She found it. Her posture adjusted. Not apologetic, not warm—just slightly less dismissive, as if the reservation had given me temporary permission to exist.

“This way,” she said.

As we walked between tables draped in white cloths, I felt the familiar sensation of moving through a world that only saw you if you wore the right costume. I’d spent most of my adult life refusing to wear it. Not because I couldn’t, but because I didn’t need to.

At fifty-eight, I was a senior executive at a multinational logistics firm. My monthly salary was forty thousand dollars—more, if bonuses were counted. I had negotiated contracts that moved millions of dollars’ worth of goods across continents. I had stared down executives who thought my quiet voice meant weak convictions.

But my son, Daniel, had never seen any of that.

To him, I was a modest office worker with a small apartment, old furniture, and a habit of turning every jar into a storage container. I let him believe it. I wanted him to build his own life without leaning on mine. I wanted him to love me as his mother, not as a safety net.

It worked too well.

When Daniel called earlier that week and said, “Mom… Sophie’s parents are in town. They really want to meet you,” his voice had that careful tone he used when he wanted something without sounding like he wanted anything at all.

“How nice,” I’d said. “Where are we meeting?”

He hesitated. “Le—Le Ciel.”

I knew the place. Le Ciel didn’t print prices on the menu. Le Ciel served water as if it were a rare vintage. Le Ciel was where people went when they wanted to be seen spending money.

“That’s… fancy,” I’d said.

Another pause. A swallowed breath. “Yeah. They like it. It’s their kind of place.”

“And what kind of place is that, Daniel?”

He laughed nervously, then lowered his voice like a confession. “Mom, please… just—please don’t be weird, okay?”

Weird. The word stung more than it should have. Maybe because it sounded so small and so sharp coming from the boy I’d raised.

“I’m never weird,” I said.

“Yes, you are,” he said quickly. “In… in a good way. You know what I mean.”

I did know. He meant: Please don’t embarrass me.

Later that night, after he’d called again to “confirm,” he blurted out what he’d been circling around.

“I told them you were… simple,” he said, voice rushing. “Not like—simple as in dumb. I mean simple as in… you live simple. You’re not… you’re not well-off.”

Simple.

I held the phone in silence long enough that he panicked.

“Mom? Say something.”

I stared at the framed photo on my kitchen shelf—Daniel at eight years old, missing front teeth, grinning like the world was his. I’d bought that frame from a discount store and kept it for decades. I could’ve replaced it a hundred times. I never did.

“You told them I’m not well-off,” I repeated, calmly.

“It just… happened,” he said. “They were talking about their… lifestyle, and Sophie was talking about her dad’s firm, and then Patricia asked what you did and I—Mom, I didn’t want them to judge you.”

I almost laughed. The irony had teeth.

“Daniel,” I said gently, “people who judge you for not being rich are exactly the people you should let judge you.”

He went quiet.

Then he said, “Please. Just… just come. It’s important to Sophie.”

I could’ve corrected him. I could’ve told him the truth right then—my salary, my position, the fact that I sat in meetings with people like Richard Collins and didn’t even bother remembering their names unless they signed contracts.

But I didn’t.

Because a part of me wanted to see the truth about the people my son had married into.

Not from stories. Not from his nervousness. Not from the polished photos on Sophie’s social media.

I wanted to see it with my own eyes.

So I made a decision.

Saturday night, I left my jewelry at home. I wore the plain dress, the shoes that had seen too many winters, and the canvas bag with frayed handles. I pulled my hair back into a simple clip. No makeup beyond a dab of concealer. I looked like the version of myself Daniel had sold to them.

A ruined and naive mother, walking into a room full of people who thought money was morality.

The hostess led me to a table near the windows. Daniel stood when he saw me, and for a second his face softened with relief—his mother had arrived, like she always did, no matter what.

Then his eyes flicked over my dress, my bag, my shoes.

And the relief turned into something else.

A wince.

“Mom,” he said, leaning in to hug me. His arms were tight around my shoulders, but his voice was low and urgent in my ear. “You couldn’t… you couldn’t wear something else?”

I pulled back slowly and looked at him.

Something in my gaze must’ve made him flush, because he stepped aside quickly.

“Mom, this is Richard and Patricia Collins,” he said, gesturing to the couple across the table. “And—uh—this is Sophie’s brother, Evan.”

Sophie was already seated beside Daniel, smiling brightly as if nothing in the world could ever sour her mood. She was beautiful in a clean, polished way—hair glossy, dress perfect, skin glowing. She reached out and squeezed my hand.

“Eleanor! I’m so happy you made it,” she said, voice sweet enough to pour.

Her parents did not stand.

Richard Collins wore a charcoal suit like armor. His hair was silver at the temples, his smile practiced and shallow. Patricia Collins looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine—pearl earrings, immaculate manicure, lips pressed into a smile that never quite made it to her eyes.

Evan, the brother, looked barely thirty and already tired, as if he’d been raised on pressure and expectations. He didn’t smile at all. He just watched.

Patricia gave me a light kiss in the air near my cheek.

“So wonderful to finally meet you,” she said. “Daniel speaks so… lovingly of you.”

Daniel’s face tightened. Sophie’s fingers slid into his, a subtle grip.

Richard nodded once, like I’d passed a minor security check.

I sat and placed my canvas bag on the floor beside my chair. I didn’t fuss with it. I didn’t apologize for it. I simply existed.

The waiter arrived—young, perfect posture, eyes scanning the table with professional warmth. His gaze landed on Richard and Patricia and lingered a fraction longer, the way staff do when they recognize the people who tip well.

“Good evening,” the waiter said. “May I begin with sparkling water for the table?”

“Yes,” Patricia said immediately. “And a bottle of the Saint-Véran.”

“Of course,” the waiter said, turning slightly. “And for you, ma’am?” His eyes flicked to me.

“Tap water is fine,” I said.

A tiny pause. The kind you can measure disrespect in.

Patricia smiled as if I’d said something adorable.

“Oh, Eleanor,” she said, laughing softly. “Tap water is… very humble.”

I smiled back. “I’m a humble woman.”

Daniel stared at his menu like it might save him.

Sophie kicked him lightly under the table—an affectionate gesture on the surface, a warning underneath.

Patricia guided the evening the way people like her always did: controlling the air, deciding what counted as normal, making everyone else adjust.

She talked about New York—private clubs, charity galas, a “little place” in the Hamptons. Richard spoke about “markets” and “opportunities” in a way that sounded like he was always giving a lecture.

Evan barely spoke. He sipped his drink and watched me, eyes sharp and a little sad.

When the menus opened, Patricia didn’t even pretend to let me choose.

“Oh, Eleanor,” she said, leaning toward me, “the seafood tower is excellent, but it might be… a bit much. They have a lovely chicken dish. Very… simple. Would you like that?”

The way she said simple made it feel like a brand.

“I’d like to see the options,” I said pleasantly.

Patricia’s smile tightened. “Of course. I just thought—well, sometimes the prices can be… surprising.”

I looked down at the menu, pretending to squint as if I wasn’t used to reading fine print.

“How much is the chicken?” I asked.

Daniel made a sound like a cough. Sophie stared at her water.

Patricia answered quickly. “Oh, it doesn’t matter. We’re treating.”

Richard nodded, but his eyes narrowed slightly, as if calculating risk.

“I wouldn’t want to be a burden,” I said softly.

Patricia’s eyes lit with something like satisfaction. “Exactly. That’s so… considerate.”

The waiter returned to take orders. Richard ordered steak. Patricia ordered lobster. Sophie ordered something delicate and expensive. Daniel ordered a mid-range option, trying to look casual while clearly watching his in-laws for approval.

“And for you, ma’am?” the waiter asked me again.

I glanced up, caught his eye, and smiled. “I’ll have the chicken, please.”

Patricia exhaled as if she’d prevented a small disaster.

While we waited, Patricia turned the conversation in the direction she’d been aiming for all along.

“So, Eleanor,” she said, “Daniel mentioned you live in… the same apartment?”

“Yes,” I said.

“How… quaint,” she murmured. “And you’ve worked at the same place a long time?”

“A long time,” I agreed.

Richard set his glass down. “And Daniel helps you, of course.”

Daniel looked up sharply. “What?”

Richard’s smile was smooth. “Financially. It’s common. Family takes care of family.”

I turned to my son. “Do you help me financially, Daniel?”

His face went hot. “No. I mean—no, Mom. You don’t need—”

Patricia waved a hand like she was smoothing wrinkles in a sheet. “Of course, of course. But you know, as parents age, it becomes… difficult.”

There it was. The hook hidden in velvet.

“I’m not that old,” I said.

Patricia laughed softly. “Oh, Eleanor. Fifty-eight is not old. But it’s… not young either.”

Sophie’s smile stayed fixed. “Mom, please—”

“No, let her speak,” Richard said, watching me. “It’s important. The young couple is starting their life. Their resources should go toward their future, not… backwards.”

Daniel’s fingers gripped his fork so tightly his knuckles whitened.

Patricia leaned forward, lowering her voice as if she were offering me a priceless favor.

“We’ve been discussing how best to support Daniel and Sophie as they build,” she said. “And we don’t want any… complications. Stress. Guilt. Obligations.”

I blinked slowly. “Complications?”

Patricia’s eyes softened into a performance of compassion.

“Eleanor, you seem like a proud woman,” she said. “So I want to propose something… discreet.”

The table fell quieter, as if even the restaurant leaned in.

Richard nodded once, encouraging her.

Patricia continued, “If you’d like, Richard and I can provide you a modest monthly allowance. Something to make things easier for you.”

Daniel snapped his head up. “What?”

Patricia held up a hand. “Just listen, sweetheart. It’s not charity. It’s… family planning.”

Evan let out a short laugh—no humor in it. Patricia shot him a warning glance.

Patricia turned back to me, voice syrup-smooth. “In exchange, we’d like you to… give the young couple space. Less… involvement. Less calling. Less dropping by. They need to focus.”

I set my fork down gently.

Patricia added, as if she were being generous, “And eventually, if it becomes necessary, we could help place you somewhere comfortable. A facility. A good one.”

Facility.

I looked at Daniel. His jaw was clenched so hard I could see the muscle jumping. Sophie’s hand was on his arm, squeezing like she was trying to keep him contained.

“Mom,” Daniel said quietly, “I didn’t know they were going to—”

Patricia cut in, still smiling. “Daniel, darling, don’t be dramatic. We’re helping.”

Richard leaned back, satisfied. “It’s practical.”

I stared at them for a long moment, letting silence do its work. In meetings, silence was a weapon. People rushed to fill it. They exposed themselves.

Patricia’s smile began to falter. “Eleanor?”

I folded my napkin carefully and set it beside my plate.

“That’s an interesting offer,” I said calmly.

Patricia’s shoulders relaxed. She thought she’d won.

“Oh, good,” she said, almost relieved. “I knew you’d understand.”

I turned slightly, addressing Daniel now, my voice warm and steady.

“Daniel, sweetheart,” I said, “when you described me as ‘simple’… did you mean kind?”

He flinched. “Mom…”

“Did you mean humble?” I continued.

His eyes glistened. “Yes.”

“Or did you mean… easy to manage?”

Sophie’s smile flickered. Evan’s gaze sharpened.

Daniel swallowed. “No.”

I nodded, as if accepting his answer.

Then I looked back at Patricia.

“Tell me,” I said gently, “how much is this modest allowance?”

Patricia blinked. “Well… we were thinking… perhaps one thousand a month? It’s—”

“It’s generous,” Richard added quickly, though it wasn’t.

I tilted my head as if doing mental math.

“One thousand dollars,” I repeated. “In exchange for disappearing from my son’s life.”

Patricia’s smile returned, the confidence swelling back up. “When you say it that way, it sounds harsh. It’s more like… boundaries.”

“Boundaries,” I echoed.

Richard nodded. “Healthy ones.”

I reached down slowly and opened my canvas bag. I felt Daniel tense, as if he expected me to pull out coupons or a packed sandwich like some stereotype.

Instead, I took out a slim leather portfolio.

Patricia’s eyebrows rose. The waiter passed by and glanced at it, then kept walking.

I placed the portfolio on the table, then looked directly at Patricia.

“I have a boundary too,” I said softly.

Her smile didn’t move. “Oh?”

“Yes,” I said. “I don’t allow anyone to speak to me as if I’m a problem to be managed.”

Richard’s eyes narrowed. “Now, listen—”

“I am listening,” I said, still gentle. “I’m also observing.”

Daniel whispered, “Mom, please…”

I touched his hand briefly. “Just breathe.”

Then I opened the portfolio and slid out a business card. Simple. Clean. No gold embossing. No flashy logo. Just my name, my title, and my company.

I slid it across the table toward Richard.

He stared at it, expression unreadable.

Patricia picked up her own water glass, took a sip, and looked at the card only briefly—until her eyes caught the title.

Her fingers froze.

Richard’s face changed, almost imperceptibly. But I saw it. I saw recognition, calculation, and something sharp behind the eyes.

Evan leaned forward and read it over Richard’s shoulder.

Then Evan laughed again—this time with real amusement.

“Oh my God,” Evan said quietly. “No way.”

Patricia’s voice came out thinner. “This… is this a joke?”

I smiled. “Not even slightly.”

Daniel’s mouth fell open. “Mom… what is that?”

“It’s my business card,” I said, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. “I’ve had one for years.”

Sophie’s smile was gone now. She looked at me like she was seeing a stranger.

Richard set the card down slowly. “You’re… that Eleanor Whitman?”

I nodded. “That depends. How many Eleanor Whitmans have you tried to intimidate into retirement homes over dinner?”

Patricia’s cheeks flushed a bright, angry pink. “We weren’t intimidating you.”

“You offered me a thousand dollars a month,” I said, still calm. “That’s what I pay for my assistant’s parking spot.”

Daniel sucked in a breath. He looked like he might be sick.

Sophie sat stiffly, eyes darting between me and her parents.

Richard cleared his throat, trying to regain control. “If you’re in logistics, that’s… impressive. Congratulations. But that has nothing to do with—”

“It has everything to do with it,” I said. “Because you weren’t offering boundaries. You were offering control. And you felt comfortable offering it because you believed I was powerless.”

Evan muttered, almost to himself, “Finally.”

Patricia shot him a look so poisonous it could’ve wilted flowers.

I turned to the waiter as he approached with the wine. He paused, sensing the tension.

“Excuse me,” I said kindly. “Could you give us a moment?”

The waiter nodded and backed away.

Daniel leaned toward me, voice shaking. “Mom… you make forty thousand a month?”

I looked at him, and for a second the ache in my chest outweighed the satisfaction.

“Yes,” I said softly. “And I didn’t tell you because I wanted you to be proud of what you build.”

His eyes filled. “I thought you were… struggling.”

“I let you think I was simple,” I said gently. “Because I thought you meant kind.”

He flinched like I’d slapped him.

Sophie finally spoke, voice tight. “Daniel didn’t mean it the way you’re making it sound.”

I turned to her. “Then explain what he meant.”

Sophie’s lips parted, then closed. She didn’t have words that wouldn’t expose something.

Patricia snapped, “This is absurd. You’ve been deceiving your own son.”

I nodded. “Yes. And you’ve been evaluating me like livestock. We all have flaws.”

Richard leaned in, voice lower now, dangerous. “Eleanor, you’re embarrassing us in public.”

“No,” I said. “You embarrassed yourselves in public. I’m just refusing to shrink to make it comfortable.”

Evan leaned forward, elbows on the table. His voice was quiet, almost resigned. “Mom, Dad… maybe stop. She’s not wrong.”

Patricia hissed, “Evan.”

He shrugged. “You do this. You always do this. You try to buy people into silence.”

A flicker of panic crossed Patricia’s face—fast, but real.

I watched her carefully. There was more under the surface. People like Patricia didn’t panic unless there was something to lose.

Richard straightened. “This dinner is over,” he said.

I smiled. “I agree.”

I reached into my bag again and pulled out my phone. Daniel’s eyes widened, as if he expected me to call the police.

Instead, I dialed a number and put it on speaker.

“Eleanor Whitman,” a cheerful voice answered immediately. “Everything okay?”

“Hi, Marisol,” I said. “Could you do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Cancel the preliminary meeting with Collins Capital on Monday,” I said. “And send an email that we’ll be moving forward with a different partner.”

Richard went completely still.

Patricia’s face drained of color.

Daniel blinked. “Wait—what?”

Evan’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh.”

Richard’s voice sharpened. “You can’t—”

“I can,” I said, still polite. “My company has been considering a major contract for national distribution. Your firm was on the shortlist. Congratulations.”

Patricia’s fingers curled around her napkin as if she might tear it in half.

Richard’s eyes narrowed. “This is retaliation.”

“This is consequences,” I corrected. “Retaliation would be me enjoying it.”

Marisol’s voice on the phone stayed pleasant. “Consider it done. Anything else?”

“Yes,” I said. “Add a note that we require partners who understand respect and discretion. And that we don’t work with firms that pressure family members into ‘facilities.’”

A beat of silence.

Then Marisol said, “Understood.”

I ended the call and set the phone down gently.

Daniel stared at me like his world had shifted on its axis.

Sophie’s face was tight, trembling with humiliation or rage—I wasn’t sure which yet.

Patricia’s voice came out thin and sharp. “How dare you.”

I met her gaze. “How dare you.”

Richard leaned toward Daniel, voice urgent. “Daniel, control your mother.”

Daniel’s head snapped toward Richard.

And in that moment, I saw my son wake up.

Slowly, Daniel pulled his hand out of Sophie’s grip.

He looked at Richard and Patricia, then at Sophie, and finally at me.

His voice was quiet, but it carried.

“No,” Daniel said. “I’m not controlling her. And you’re not controlling me.”

Patricia’s mouth fell open.

Sophie whispered, “Daniel…”

He shook his head once. “I didn’t know they were going to do that to you,” he said to me, voice cracking. “But… I should’ve known they could.”

I didn’t say I told you so. Mothers don’t say that when their child is bleeding inside.

Instead, I said, “What matters is what you do now.”

Daniel stood, and his chair scraped the floor loudly enough that nearby tables glanced over.

“I’m leaving,” he said to Sophie, eyes shining. “With my mom.”

Sophie stood too, face burning. “You can’t just—Daniel, don’t embarrass me!”

Daniel laughed once, bitter. “Embarrass you? Sophie, your mother just tried to pay my mom to disappear.”

Patricia snapped, “That is not what happened!”

Evan stood abruptly. “It is what happened,” he said, voice flat. “And I’m done pretending it’s normal.”

Patricia turned on him. “Sit down.”

Evan didn’t. He looked at me, then at Daniel.

“Daniel,” he said quietly, “for what it’s worth… I’m sorry. I’ve been on the receiving end of this my whole life.”

Daniel stared at him, surprised.

Evan shrugged, eyes tired. “If you ever want a brother-in-law who tells the truth, call me.”

Patricia’s face twisted with fury. Richard’s jaw worked like he was chewing anger.

Sophie stood frozen, trapped between loyalty and shame.

I rose calmly, smoothing my dress.

“Thank you for dinner,” I said, turning to Richard and Patricia with a polite smile. “Next time you’d like to purchase someone’s silence, I suggest you first confirm they’re for sale.”

Patricia’s lips trembled. “You’re a cruel woman.”

I paused, then tilted my head. “No, Patricia. I’m a quiet woman. You just mistook quiet for weak.”

Daniel and I walked out together. The hostess watched us go, eyes wide, as if she could feel the storm we were leaving behind.

Outside, the cold air hit my face like truth. Daniel stood on the sidewalk under the glow of the restaurant’s sign, hands shaking.

He looked at me, and his voice broke like he was twelve again.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered. “All this time… why didn’t you tell me you were… you?”

I reached up and cupped his cheek, the same way I did when he was small and had nightmares.

“I did tell you,” I said softly. “In a different way. I taught you to work. To be kind. To stand on your own feet.”

Tears slid down his face, and he didn’t wipe them away.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry I let them talk to you like that. I’m sorry I called you simple.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

“I’m not angry because you wanted them to like you,” I said. “I’m angry because you were willing to shrink me so they would.”

He nodded, breathing hard. “I didn’t realize I was doing it. But… I did. And I hate that.”

We stood there while the city moved around us—cars passing, people laughing, music spilling faintly from inside the restaurant like nothing had happened.

Then Daniel asked, voice small, “Are you going to… ruin them?”

I considered it honestly.

“I’m going to protect myself,” I said. “And I’m going to protect you if you let me.”

He nodded quickly. “I want you to.”

A few minutes later, Sophie came outside alone. Her face was blotchy, mascara smudged at the corners of her eyes. She looked less like a perfect doll and more like a frightened woman.

“Daniel,” she said, voice shaking, “please… get in the car. We can talk at home.”

Daniel didn’t move.

Sophie glanced at me, bitterness flashing. “You humiliated my parents.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Your parents humiliated themselves. I simply refused to wear it.”

Sophie’s jaw tightened. “You lied to Daniel.”

Daniel flinched at that, but I spoke before he could.

“I didn’t lie,” I said. “I withheld. The difference matters.”

Sophie scoffed. “It’s the same thing.”

“No,” I said, voice still calm. “A lie is telling someone a false story so you can manipulate them. I withheld my income to keep my son from relying on it. Your parents tried to manipulate me because they thought I didn’t have any.”

Sophie’s eyes flickered, and for a second I saw conflict. Not just anger—fear.

“Daniel,” she whispered, softer now, “my parents… they’re intense, but they mean well.”

Daniel shook his head. “They don’t mean well. They mean control.”

Sophie’s voice rose. “You’re choosing her over me!”

Daniel’s face crumpled. “No, Sophie. I’m choosing respect over whatever this is.”

Sophie turned to me, eyes sharp. “You want him to leave me.”

I sighed. “I want him to be safe,” I said. “And I want him to be loved without conditions.”

Sophie’s breath hitched. She looked away, then back at Daniel.

“Come home,” she said again, voice pleading now. “Please.”

Daniel looked at her for a long time—long enough that I could see the memories moving behind his eyes: love, hope, the life he thought he’d built.

Then he said, quietly, “Not tonight.”

Sophie’s face twisted. She backed away as if the sidewalk itself had betrayed her.

“Fine,” she spat, tears spilling. “Enjoy your… rich mother.”

Then she turned and walked into the night, heels clicking like punctuation.

Daniel sagged, shoulders shaking.

I put an arm around him.

“It’s going to hurt,” I said softly.

He nodded into my shoulder. “I didn’t know I married into… that.”

I stared up at the restaurant’s glowing windows and the silhouettes moving behind them.

“You didn’t marry into it,” I said. “Not yet. Marriage is a choice you keep making.”

He pulled back, wiping his face. “What do I do?”

I took a slow breath. “You tell the truth. To yourself first. Then to her. And you decide if she’s willing to be your partner instead of her parents’ extension.”

Daniel nodded, swallowing hard. “And you… you’re really okay?”

I smiled, tired but steady.

“I’ve been underestimated my whole life,” I said. “Tonight wasn’t new. It was just… louder.”

He looked at me, eyes full of something I hadn’t seen in a long time.

Respect.

Not because of my salary or my title. But because he’d finally realized the strength that had been there all along.

He reached for my hand the way he used to when he was small and crossing busy streets.

“Take me home, Mom,” he said quietly. “Please.”

I squeezed his hand.

“Of course,” I said. “But Daniel?”

He looked at me.

“Next time someone tries to buy your life,” I said softly, “don’t wait for your mother to prove she’s expensive. Prove you’re not for sale.”

He nodded, and in the cold December air, I saw my son begin to grow up in a way he never had before.

We walked away from Le Ciel together—past the doorman, past the glowing windows, past the world that measures worth in price tags.

And for the first time in a long time, Daniel didn’t look embarrassed beside me.

He looked proud.