Dorian’s lawyer, Everett Kane, stood with the polished sadness of a man paid to make cruelty sound reasonable.
“Your Honor,” he said, “my client can provide these children with stability in the fullest sense of the word. Private education, medical care, counseling, secure housing, proper nutrition, supervised activities, and a structured environment. Mrs. Vega, with respect, is doing her best, but she survives on inconsistent service work and currently rents a single room from her sister. Love is admirable. Love alone is not a parenting plan.”
Marisol’s hands tightened around the folder.
Lucas saw her knuckles turn white.
It was not the word poor that hurt most. People had been calling them poor without saying it for years. They said it with raised eyebrows at school pickup, with careful questions from social workers, with the look landlords gave when rent was late by three days. What hurt was the way Dorian’s attorney said love alone, as if love were a childish thing, a soft blanket too thin to matter beside money.
Dorian sighed, leaning back with perfect timing. “I do not want to punish Marisol,” he said, his voice warm enough for strangers. “She is the mother of my children. I will always honor that. But she is emotional. She is unstable. She cries in front of them. She makes them afraid of me because she cannot accept that I can give them a better life.”
Marisol lifted her head. “I cry because of what you do to them when no one is watching.”
