Seven years after we moved to Paris, my thirteen-year-old daughter, Stella, was already a rising star at the Paris Opera Ballet, her future shimmering with promise.

Stella could bring even the most challenging solos to life with a breathtaking, ethereal grace.

But there was one dance Stella refused to perform—a deceptively simple solo from her childhood. She feared that if she ever danced it on stage, she might actually forgive him.

So, when the man named Dimitri Hawthorne appeared at our door with a pair of ballet slippers handcrafted by a legendary artisan, asking Stella to dance it for him, she just calmly shook her head.

"Sir, I will not dance that dance."

Tears instantly welled in Dimitri's eyes. He grabbed Stella's hand, trying to force the slippers into her palm.

"Don't say that, Stella. You're a prodigy! You've always wanted a pair of these, haven't you? Look, I got them for you. From now on, whatever you want, just tell me. I'll get you anything."

Stella coldly pulled her hand back.

"I don't need them, sir. I can earn the money for my own slippers. You should give these to your daughter."

A pang of despair shot through Dimitri. He lunged forward, pulling Stella into his arms.

"What are you talking about, Stella? You are my only daughter!"

But Stella just looked at him, bewildered.

"Weren't you the one who said Miss Croft's daughter was the only one worthy of being your child? Didn't you give the summer camp spot you promised me to her daughter?"

At this, Stella offered Dimitri a detached smile.

"It doesn't matter, sir. Since you're so fond of Miss Croft, go raise her daughter. My mom is all I need."

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1

Dimitri Hawthorne's mind reeled. He had imagined this reunion a thousand times, but never once did he picture his daughter, Stella Hawthorne, being so cold, so resolute.

What he didn't know was that Stella and I had already given him countless chances.

In the five years of our marriage, he had countless chances to tell us who he really was—the eldest son of the Hawthorne family. But he kept his silence.

Whenever Stella said she wanted to go to a ballet summer camp, he'd always put her off with the same excuse: they didn't have the money.

"Of course, baby. But Daddy doesn't have enough right now. As soon as I earn more, I'll send you to the best summer camp."

For five years, I worked myself to the bone at a restaurant, and for five years, he just watched.

Every time I dragged my exhausted body home, Stella would ask with a hopeful heart, "Mom, have we saved enough for the summer camp in New York? I want to come back a great dancer and perform a whole solo for Dad. It was the first one I ever learned!"

I'd empty our change jar onto the table, counting every last coin, only to have to shake my head.

"Just a little bit more. We'll work harder tomorrow, and we'll have enough soon."

Finally, a month before the registration deadline, I counted the change in the jar and was overjoyed. We had enough to pay the registration fee for the camp in New York.

But as I was walking down Newbury Street, holding Stella's hand, my eyes caught a familiar figure inside a high-end ballet boutique on the corner. It was Dimitri. He was with the daughter of his first love, consulting a ballet master about lessons.

My hand trembled as I pointed to the master's poster and asked the clerk, "Excuse me, how much are that master's lessons?"

The clerk gave me a professional smile. "That master's private lessons were booked by this gentleman a long time ago. It's for a full year, costing hundreds of thousands of dollars."

Hundreds of thousands of dollars. The number felt like a physical blow, and the blood in my veins turned to ice.

I'd been told before that Dimitri came from a significant family, but looking at our bare-bones apartment and worn-out furniture, I never believed he could be wealthy.

Looking back, I could only imagine the agony he must have endured, slumming it in our shabby apartment for five long years.

Seeing my silence, Stella asked curiously, "Mom, is Dad really rich? Did he hire that master for me?"

Stella was still too young to understand the silent drama unfolding behind the glass. Gazing at her faded practice leotard, I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

Sensing my distress, Stella tugged on my sleeve. "Mom, it looks like Dad's busy with that lady. Let's just go home. We can come back and sign up another day."

Her voice trailed off, her small face unable to hide her disappointment. But I was too lost in a haze of betrayal to notice, my hand leading her away on autopilot.

Back home, I retrieved our marriage certificate and other documents, looking up the address he'd registered online.

"Boston, Beacon Hill."

Even living in the suburbs, I had heard of it—Boston's most exclusive, wealthy neighborhood, home only to the city's elite.

Dimitri had kept us completely in the dark. I couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking, watching us struggle day after day, scrimping and saving for a dream.

Was that pity in his eyes as he watched us? Or was he laughing at our pathetic attempts to claw our way to something better?

The thought forced a bitter, humorless laugh from my throat, and I dialed my divorce lawyer.

After what felt like an eternity, I heard footsteps outside. Dimitri was back.

Stella rushed to the door to greet him, her face alight with excitement as always, but Dimitri brushed past her without so much as a hug.

Normally, Stella was used to her father's coldness. But today, for some reason, she clung to the corner of his shirt, refusing to let go.

"Dad, can you sign me up for the summer camp? My teacher taught me a new dance, and I learned it right away. I want to dance it for you."

"Of course. As soon as I make the money, I'll sign you up," Dimitri said, brushing her off as usual.

"When will that be?"

Stella was unusually persistent today, demanding an answer. Dimitri hesitated several times before finally nodding.

Stella hugged my leg, cheering with excitement. "Mom, I'm going to summer camp! I'm going to dance so many dances for Mom and Dad!"

I was happy for her, too, looking forward to seeing her perform. But one day, two days, a whole week passed. The registration deadline loomed, and there was still no word on the enrollment Dimitri had promised.

One morning, I found Stella crying silently under her covers. Dimitri saw it too but remained impassive.

Instead, his eyes landed on me. "Oh, you're here. Make me some chicken soup and put it in a thermos. I need to take it with me."

Chicken soup. For Genevieve Croft.

I had once collapsed from exhaustion right in front of him, and he had never shown an ounce of concern.

A wire inside me snapped. His casual words were the spark. Before I even registered my own actions, the glass in my hand was shattering on the floor near his feet.

The sound startled Dimitri, but it was my own ragged sobs that shocked me more, tearing from my chest with a force that stole my breath.

After the initial shock, a flash of anger crossed Dimitri's face, but it vanished as soon as he saw my tears.

"If you don't want to make it, then don't. Was all this really necessary?"

"What about the summer camp you promised Stella?"

Dimitri seemed to have completely forgotten. A flicker of embarrassment crossed his face, quickly masked by impatience. "I'll sign her up. Do you have to hound me like this?"

"I'll sign her up." He had said that countless times over five years. A stone tossed into a pond at least makes a ripple. His promises simply vanished into thin air.

I rushed into Stella's room and pulled her out from under the covers.

"I'm going to divorce your father. After, we'll go to Paris together, okay?"

Going to Paris was an abstract idea for Stella, but it was our only option. The Hawthorne family's influence in Boston was too pervasive; only in Paris could Stella's talent truly blossom.

All my savings combined were just enough for two one-way tickets.

Seeing my red, swollen eyes, Stella threw herself into my arms and said softly, "Mom, can we give Dad one more chance? If he still doesn't remember by my birthday, we'll leave."

"Alright."

But this was the last chance Stella and I would give him.

The next day, I took Stella to the park to clear our heads. I was a graduate of the prestigious Joffrey Ballet School, but after having a child, I'd been off the stage for too long. No company would even consider me.

With no other choice, I had become a waitress to make ends meet.

"Excuse me, may I use your restroom?"

A woman's voice broke through my thoughts. I looked up to see Genevieve.

She was dressed glamorously, her words laced with a subtle provocation.

Just then, a man’s arm wrapped around Genevieve’s waist from the side.

"Genevieve, you're not feeling well. What are you doing out here?"

"This street-side stuff is so unsanitary."

The moment our eyes met, Dimitri's face darkened. Genevieve, however, feigned total ignorance.

"Oh, Dimitri, look how cute her little girl is. Practicing out here, it must be so hard on her."

At that moment, the pity in Genevieve's eyes was like a knife twisting in my gut.

"Ah!" I cried out. Distracted for a second, I lost my footing and twisted my ankle.

Seeing me fall, Dimitri frowned and instinctively started toward me.

"Dimitri! My stomach hurts so much!"

A heartbeat later, Genevieve gasped, clutching her stomach. At her cry of pain, Dimitri spun around and swept her into his arms.

Genevieve rested her head on Dimitri's shoulder and gave me a triumphant little smile. She had known who I was all along.