The Plane Tickets He Hoarded The Wife He Hid novel Chapter 38

38 Chapter 38 When The Music Is Wrong

Blanche’s POV

Back at the Callum Mansion, everyone had waited dinner for me.

The dining room buzzed with cozy energy–Camila squeezed between Amber and me, her plate piled high with glazed ham and buttery

rolls while we both peeled shrimp for her. She was practically glowing, her eyes scrunched into tiny crescents.

“Mom, Aunt Blanche, tomorrow’s the Thanksgiving show! I’m super excited… but also kinda nervous,” Camila said, sucking tartar sauce

off her thumb.

I smiled, though something heavy pressed against my ribs.

Amber wiped a crumb from Camila’s chin. “Hey, don’t stress. Aunt Blanche and I will be right there cheering. Just give it your all, sweetie.

Gold star or not, you’re our little superstar no matter what. Promise?”

Camila’s giggles bubbled back up.

Then she paused, like something just hit her, and looked at me with worried brows. “Aunt Blanche… tomorrow’s gonna be fine, right?”

She’d asked this same question before.

Camila and Carry attended the same kindergarten. I was coming to her performance, not Carry’s.

It thrilled her, but… what if Carry felt abandoned?

I’d turned this over in my head countless times. I hadn’t realized they went to the same school until Camila mentioned it, and by then, I’d

already committed to being there.

Anyway, Carry probably didn’t want me there.

I squeezed Camila’s fingers, forcing a smile. “Everything’s going to be perfect. Promise.”

‘Of course I want to support my own daughter, I thought, my throat constricting. ‘But she doesn’t want me there anymore!

Things between us could never go back to how they were.

If only I hadn’t overheard Carry’s cruel words… If only I didn’t know that Joanna was the one she truly loved…

But you don’t get second chances in real life.

The next morning, Camila was awake before dawn. She burst into Amber and her dad’s bedroom first, then sprinted to my door,

practically vibrating with excitement,

Today was the kindergarten’s big Thanksgiving celebration.

The teacher said kids could get dressed at home or school, but with Amber’s modeling background, we weren’t leaving anything to

chance.

We needed to arrive by 8:30, so Amber was already up at six, organizing Camila’s costume.

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When Camila’s squeals echoed through the hallway, I dragged myself out of bed too.

Amber spent the next hour perfecting Camila’s look–tiny overalls covered in turkey prints, a fuzzy orange cardigan, and two braids tied with glittery gold ribbons that bounced with every movement–pure kindergarten magic.

After Camila finished twirling in front of the mirror, pretending to be a miniature pilgrim, Amber knocked on my door.

“Blanche, let me fix your makeup,” she said, brandishing a small cosmetics bag. “You need to look gorgeous for our little star’s debut.”

I was already dressed in a comfortable sweater and jeans, a baseball cap tucked over my hair.

I knew how these kindergarten events worked–besides the stage performances, there were always interactive parent–child activities.

Better to dress down today, I reasoned, so I could participate with Camila without worrying about my outfit.

“Amber, I’ll pass on makeup. I’ll be playing games with Camila later,” I said.

I’d fantasized countless times about joining Carry in those parent–child competitions–I’d even researched activity ideas online.

But I never expected that by the time my daughter started school, I’d feel like a stranger watching from the outside.

At least I could be there for Camila.

Amber saw straight through me. She grinned. “Playing games doesn’t mean you can’t look stunning. Plus, makeup isn’t for other people- it’s for you. When you feel confident, everything else falls into place. Come on, just a natural, glowing base. I swear it’ll be quick.”

I couldn’t resist Amber’s infectious energy, so I caved.

Since Carry’s birth, I rarely bothered with cosmetics. But my skin was naturally clear–smooth, even–toned, unblemished–so I still looked as radiant as women my age who obsessed over skincare routines.

Some concealer here, a hint of blush there, and Amber’s expert touch enhanced my features–softer, more luminous, somehow more

youthful.

Amber held up a compact mirror. “See? What a difference, right?”

I stared at my reflection, startled.

I’d always been attractive, but after Carry arrived, I’d let myself disappear into the background–Zain had grown accustomed to seeing

me with tangled hair, stained tops, constantly rushing to care for our daughter.

But Joanna was nothing like that. She was perpetually polished–full makeup, never–repeated outfits, a fresh aesthetic in every social

media post I’d secretly stalked.

Gentle, dramatic, flirtatious, sophisticated, playful… she was a master of reinvention, effortless in every persona,

‘If I were a man; I’d even thought once, I’d be completely smitten with her too. Who wouldn’t be?

“Blanche?” Amber’s voice snapped me back.

I smiled, dismissing the thought. “Wow. I really do look amazing. Thank you.”

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Amber squeezed my shoulder. “Dress up, live a little. The things you’ve lost… they don’t control you anymore.”

I nodded, feeling lighter. “Yeah. You’re right.”

“I’ll gather our stuff,” Amber said. “We leave at eight sharp.”

At exactly eight, the three of us departed the Callum Mansion.

When we reached the kindergarten, the place pulsed with energy–parents mingling, children in miniature pilgrim bonnets and turkey

costumes, the air thick with the scent of caramel corn and spiced cider.

Camila spotted her classmates and practically glowed, dragging Amber and me over. “Everyone, meet my mom and my aunt! Aren’t they

the coolest?” she announced, beaming with pride.

After introducing her “support team” to the crowd, the teacher gathered everyone together.

Parents settled into their seats while teachers herded the chattering kids, who buzzed with anticipation.

The event began not with choreographed numbers, but with a series of traditional Thanksgiving presentations designed for tiny

performers.

I sat in the audience, my eyes occasionally wandering to where Carry’s class gathered backstage.

Class by class, they took center stage–some belted out “Turkey in the Straw” with enthusiastic off–key voices, others performed a

simplified “First Thanksgiving” scene, miniature Pilgrims and Native Americans sharing toy vegetables and gourds. A few toddlers froze

mid–sentence, or broke character to wave frantically at their families, but the audience applauded just as loudly–cuteness beat

perfection every time.

Carry’s class came up for their group performance–an upbeat song called “Grateful Hearts,” complete with coordinated gestures.

Someone had painted tiny turkey feathers on her cheeks, and her hair was pulled into a simple ponytail, nothing fancy–but she smiled

the entire time, nailing every movement.

Watching her so joyful, I released a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

Despite the painful words between us, I still desperately wanted my daughter to feel cherished.

After the group acts, individual showcases began–kids displaying talents they’d rehearsed, with the best performances earning gleaming

gold stickers and small certificates labeled “Outstanding Little Artist.”

Camila was scheduled later, planning to perform a scene from The Little Red Hen (a story about appreciation and cooperation, the

teacher had explained).

Then Carry’s solo arrived.

She walked onto the small platform alone, her gaze scanning the crowd as if hunting for a recognizable face,

Whispers spread through the parents.

“Is she performing by herself?”

“Where are her parents?”

38 Chapter 38 When The Music Is Wrong

“Poor kid–she looks terrified.

“Who skips their child’s first solo? That’s heartbreaking.”

Carry caught the murmurs. Her lower lip quivered, and tears pooled in her eyes.

My chest clenched.

I started to rise, but Amber’s grip on my arm held me back.

Amber nodded toward the entrance, and I turned to see Joanna making her entrance–wearing an elegant silk dress, cranberry red, with

strappy heels that echoed against the floor. Behind her, two assistants carried a portable piano, while another hauled a folding stool.

Carry’s face transformed. “Miss Joanna! You came!” she shrieked, bouncing excitedly.

Joanna glided through the crowd with a radiant smile, stepped onto the stage, and clasped Carry’s hand.

After the piano was positioned and the stool arranged, she tousled Carry’s hair before taking her seat.

Carry moved into position, prepared to dance while Joanna accompanied her.

Joanna shut her eyes, then let her fingers flow across the keys. A soaring, nearly symphonic melody filled the space–gorgeous, but far

too sophisticated for a kindergartener’s dance routine.

Carry, in her ruffled dress, attempted to pirouette and glide to the music, but she’d obviously practiced something much simpler.

The melody intensified, and her movements became clumsy–a stumble here, a mistimed turn there.

Soon, she was clearly overwhelmed, her tiny figure seeming insignificant against the music’s complexity. The dance, once confident,

became uncomfortable–like a hummingbird trying to match an eagle’s flight.

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