"That's Levi—stop the video!" Silvia's fingers hovered, shaking, over the screen like they might drop the world. The clip played again: three seconds, grainy but brutal. A toddler in a powder-blue romper, crooked bow tie, the tiny tuft of hair that always stuck up—the mole on his left cheek. Levi. The kid laughed. Someone off-camera cheered. Streamers. A cake with plastic dinosaurs. For a half-breath she forgot how to breathe. "Sil, what's wrong?" Jenna at the coffee machine froze. She saw the face Silvia wore and knew it wasn't a joke. "That's Levi," Silvia said. Sound clipped. "That's my son." Jenna leaned in. The breakroom hummed, phones and microwaves and a corporate TV playing a muted morning show. The clip was from a private chat thread; someone had shared it in the wrong group. It wasn't meant for her eyes. But it was there, and it was public enough to be forwarded. Silvia paused the clip and zoomed. A small embroidered whale on the romper. A blue hospital bracelet. The mole. The way he flinched when the camera zoomed too close. Proof in three seconds. "Who posted this?" she asked. She already knew the answer. Katalina had a habit—everything was a show, everything a post. Curry Celebrations branded each event like a trademark. Silvia scrolled faster. The video feed led to a page: a private album labeled "Creed's Surprise" with a location tag—Mariner Heights Banquet