Her recital program crinkled in her fist, little shoes dangling off my knee.
The reflection in the dark window showed a beat-up guy holding the safest thing in his world.
I couldn’t stop staring.
That’s when I noticed the man a few seats down, watching.
He was maybe mid-forties, good coat, quiet watch, hair that had clearly met a real barber.
He didn’t look flashy, just… finished.
Put together in a way I’ve never felt.
“Did you just take a picture of my kid?”
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He kept glancing at us, then away, like he was arguing with himself.
Then he lifted his phone and pointed it our direction.
Anger snapped me awake faster than caffeine.
“Hey,” I said, keeping my voice low but sharp.
“Did you just take a picture of my kid?”
The man froze, thumb hovering over the screen.
His eyes went wide.
He started tapping like his fingers were on fire.
“I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
No defensiveness, no attitude, just guilt so obvious even half-asleep me could see it.
“Delete it,” I said. “Right now.”
He started tapping like his fingers were on fire.
He opened the photos, showed me the picture, then deleted it.
Opened the trash, deleted it again.
Turned the screen so I could see the empty gallery.
I just held Lily closer until our stop.
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