“I’m starving… Dad was eating lobster… I drank plain water in the car…” my eight-year-old whispered. I drove straight to the upscale French restaurant. My husband was feeding his mistress and sneered, “This place isn’t for country women like you.” He didn’t know he was standing on my property, under my roof, using my electricity. I made one call. “Cut the power. Reclaim the lease.” Sixty seconds later, the restaurant went dark.

She rushed back to the restaurant at 5:00 PM, guilt gnawing at her for being late.

She parked her modest sedan in the alley and walked toward the back entrance. As she passed Mark’s Porsche Cayenne, she stopped.

The engine was off. The windows were cracked slightly.

Inside, curled up in the backseat, was Leo.

Elena’s heart stopped. She ripped the door open. “Leo?”

Her seven-year-old son looked up, his face pale and sweaty. He was holding a plastic cup from a gas station. The car was sweltering; even with the windows cracked, the New York summer heat was oppressive.

“Mommy?” Leo whispered.

“Leo, my god,” Elena gasped, unbuckling him and pulling him into her arms. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you inside with Daddy?”

“He said… he said I didn’t have the right clothes,” Leo murmured, his voice raspy. “He said the VIP section was opening early and I looked messy. He told me to wait here.”

Elena felt a cold fury wash over her, numbing her fingers. “How long, Leo? How long have you been in the car?”

“Since you dropped me off,” Leo said. “I was thirsty. I went inside once, but Dad yelled. He gave me this water from the bathroom tap and told me to go back.”

Elena looked at the plastic cup. Warm, stale tap water.

“Did you eat?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“No,” Leo said. “But Dad was eating. I saw him through the window. He was eating the big red bug.”

“Lobster,” Elena corrected automatically.