Weeks after the papers were signed and the house was quiet again, I found her. I didn’t have to look hard; Instagram’s algorithm, in a stroke of digital irony, suggested her profile to me under “People You May Know.” Her name was Claire. Her feed was a curated collection of pastel aesthetics, professional headshots, and inspirational quotes about “finding your true path.” She worked as a stylist at a high-end boutique downtown.
I booked a session under my middle name. I didn’t want a scene; I wanted a confrontation. When I walked into the boutique, she greeted me with a polished, professional smile, oblivious to who I was. She offered me tea and complimented my coat. I let her play the role for a few minutes, watching the hands that had touched my son’s hair move through the racks of clothes.
“I have a specific look in mind,” I said, pulling out my phone. Continue reading…
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