“Mom, are you sure we’re allowed to go?”
Emma turned to see her six-year-old son, Lucas, sitting with his tiny suit jacket buttoned all the way up. He looked like a miniature gentleman, his sandy hair combed neatly to the side.
“We’re not just allowed, sweetheart,” she said, kneeling to his level. “We’re invited. And when you’re invited, you go with your head held high.”
Lucas tilted his head. “But… they’re rich, right? Like, really rich?”
Emma smiled, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead. “Yes, but that doesn’t make them better than us. Remember what I always say?”
“That we have our own kind of wealth,” he replied softly.
“Exactly.”
