Dionisia had never played the role of mother with ease, and that was evident enough even after a year and a half of motherhood. She tried to tell herself that it was because she had never planned to become one, but there was another, sadder truth: Elliott was a bastard, and she'd never wanted a bastard. She loved him—truly—but it was times like these, as they walked through High Street, him tugging on her dress skirt while he giggled and pointed at the holiday decoration around them, that she felt out of her element.

Nobody knew. Nobody had ever known. At worst, people assumed she and Ari had premarital sex in the months before their wedding, but even that seemed like a relief considering the reality. Still, as they waited in line to see Father Christmas alongside the other mothers and fathers with their children, Dionisia felt seen. Finally Elliott's turn to meet the fake-bearded man arrived, and Dionisia stood uncomfortably to the side, her arms crossed over her chest. She stared at the man as her son approached him, something in his voice familiar but not enough to pinpoint.

"Elliott," she replied, just loud enough to be heard.

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