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The photos kept coming.
Me at seven, at a park, tripping over my own feet and bursting into tears.
Me at eight, at a school piano recital — hands shaking with nerves, but playing all the way through.
Me at ten, holding an enormous stuffed bear, eyes bright, mouth moving: making a wish.
After ten, the mood shifted.
Me at twelve, alone at a kitchen table with a single birthday candle. No cake around it, just the candle.
Me at fifteen, slumped asleep at my desk in school uniform. Something dried at the corner of one eye.
Me at eighteen, standing alone at the university gates with my bags. All around me, families. Hugs, tears, promises. My back to camera. No one beside me.
Many of these photos I had never seen. Someone had been there — watching — in all those moments I thought I was invisible.
Over the images came Dad's voice, low and unsteady.
"Sophie. My girl. I'm sorry."
"I told myself I was busy. Busy with meetings, with clients, with building something. I told myself that keeping you comfortable was the same as being there. I was wrong. I was so wrong."
"One day I found a notebook in your room. You'd been doodling in it. There was a list."
The camera cut to a close-up of a page covered in uneven, childish writing.
Age 10 — want to go to Disneyland with Mum and Dad.
Age 12 — want a proper dress for the end-of-term concert. A real one.
Age 15 — hope Mum or Dad will call on my birthday. Just to say it.
The writing was mine. I hadn't looked at that notebook in years.
I'd forgotten those wishes. Or I'd tried to.
They hadn't.
"You never wanted things," Dad said. "You wanted us."
The pictures continued.
"We tried to reach you. Every attempt, you refused. We didn't know how to break through. So this year — we decided to give you everything we owe you, all at once."
"We know this was cruel. We know the method was wrong. We know that using your pain as a dramatic device wasn't love — it was desperation. But we didn't know how else to make you feel it."
The last image on screen was the one of me walking into the room twenty minutes ago. Black dress. Head up. Eyes hard and frightened and trying not to show it.
Underneath it, in white text: Our princess. Welcome home. Happy birthday.
The lights came back up.
The stage was empty now.
My parents — and Jamie — had moved to stand in front of me while I was watching the screen.
Mum's tears were running without pause. Her hands were extended, hovering, not quite reaching me.
"Sophie—"
I looked at her. Then at Dad, whose eyes were red. Then at Jamie, jaw clenched, trying to hold it together.
Mia approached from the side. She'd taken off the crown, changed out of the pink dress. She looked very young.
"I'm Mia. Mia Prescott. My mum runs the event company. Your parents came to us and explained — they wanted to do something that would finally get through to you. I said I'd help. I'm sorry for any hurt I caused."
She gestured to the stage.
The curtain drew back.
A white grand piano stood on the stage. Slim, elegant. On the side, engraved: S.S.
My initials.
I couldn't speak.