“Don’t forget the Washingtons tonight,” he told me that morning—my birthday—without looking up. “Put on your black Armani. And do your hair.”

The Washingtons. I’d completely forgotten, naively hoping my birthday would translate into a romantic dinner for two. But Travis had been interested in their finances for months, and apparently, my birthday was the perfect excuse to disguise business as celebration.

At 7:15 a.m., I arrived in the parking lot of Lincoln Elementary School, trading marble and precision espresso for drawing paper and burnt-tasting coffee prepared by people who, at least, smiled at me. My third-grade classroom was a world apart: twenty-eight desks more or less in disarray, walls covered with multiplication tables and colored pencil drawings of families—some with dogs with disproportionately large legs.

Here, Savannah Turner still existed, even though the plaque on my desk read “Mrs. Mitchell”.

“Happy birthday, Mrs. Mitchell!” Sophia wrapped herself around my legs as soon as I crossed the threshold, followed by a chorus of eight-year-old children’s voices who had somehow discovered my secret.

“How did you know?” I asked, laughing.

“We’re detectives,” announced Michael, proudly brandishing the class calendar where he had circled today’s date in red marker. “And you told us that last month!”

They had used their free reading time to make cards: twenty-eight sheets of construction paper covered in glitter, filled with crooked hearts, misspelled love words, and drawings of me with arms that were too long or legs that were too short.

It was a kind of wealth Travis would never understand — the kind of wealth you can’t invest, flaunt, or even discuss at a golf club.

At lunchtime, while my students ran around outside, I sat in the staff room with Janet, nibbling on a three-dollar salad from the cafeteria that, oddly enough, tasted better than the overpriced entrees at Travis’s favorite restaurants.

“Any big plans for my birthday?” asked Janet.

“Dinner at Château Blanc,” I said, forcing my enthusiasm.

“Oh, great,” she replied, then raised an eyebrow. “Just the two of you?”

“Seventeen people from Travis’s firm,” I admitted. “The Washingtons might well be shifting their portfolio.”

Janet’s expression changed into that gentle, professorial look reserved for children who confidently give the wrong answer.

“It’s fine,” I hastened to say. “Travis says birthdays are arbitrary constructs.”

As I repeated his words, I heard how empty they sounded under the fluorescent lights.