of with money that had never belonged to her.
But none of us knew that yet.
Our daughter’s first birthday was in a private garden room at a botanical conservatory outside Philadelphia.
Nothing huge.
Thirty-six people.
Immediate family, close friends, pink and yellow flowers, too many balloons, and a small white cake Sophie was clearly planning to murder with her bare hands.
My wife Lauren had looked toward the entrance seventeen times.
I knew because I had started counting.
At 1:47, thirteen minutes before the party began, Vivian texted.
