Balloons floated above the table.
Fresh flowers stood in crystal vases.
Pink ribbons decorated the chairs.
A three-tier cake with a little teddy bear on top occupied the center of the room.
The cake alone cost more than the neglected girl had spent on clothes in the previous two years.
Behind it stood her father.
A handsome forty-five-year-old Black American businessman wearing an expensive navy suit, a pale-blue shirt, and a light-pink tie.
He smiled whenever a guest approached.
He shook hands.
Accepted compliments.
And proudly explained that the birthday party was a surprise he had wanted to give his younger daughter.
At least, that was how he thought of the girl in pink now.
His younger daughter.
His wife had brought her into their marriage two years earlier.
He loved her.
He wanted her to feel welcome.
He wanted both children to believe they belonged in the same family.
What he did not know was that the enormous birthday celebration had been financed with money taken from the trust fund his first wife left for his biological daughter.
He did not know that his new wife had been moving money for nineteen months.
He did not know that the girl in the dirty dress had been told her inheritance was gone.
And he did not know that the worn sneaker on her left foot contained the first piece of evidence that would expose everything.
He only knew that his wife had promised to organize a wonderful birthday party.
And she had.
At least for one child.
The stepmother stood near the right side of the dining room, watching the guests with a satisfied smile.
She was forty years old, attractive, impeccably dressed, and accustomed to being admired. Her burgundy designer blouse fit perfectly above tailored black trousers. Her hair fell in glossy waves, and a diamond bracelet sparkled at her wrist.
She knew how to enter a room.
How to smile at wealthy people.
How to make a compliment sound sincere.
How to convince strangers that she was a devoted wife who had lovingly embraced the responsibility of raising another woman's child.
And she knew exactly how to humiliate that child without making herself look cruel.
Until that afternoon.
The birthday girl stood beside the cake, her fingers nervously touching the side of her dress.
She had been watching her stepsister for several minutes.
The girl in the dirty dress looked exhausted.
Her lips were dry.
Her shoulders drooped.
And whenever a server carried a tray of food through the room, her eyes followed it.
The birthday girl leaned closer.
“Are you hungry?”
The other child looked startled.
For a moment, she seemed afraid to answer.
Then she nodded slightly.
Her stepsister glanced toward the table filled with sandwiches, cupcakes, fruit, and miniature pastries.
“Why don't you get something?”
The girl in the dirty dress lowered her eyes.
“I'm not allowed.”
The birthday girl's expression changed.
“What?”
“Your mom said I have to wait.”
The younger girl looked toward her mother.