“You chose to stay in the guest house,” Father said.

“Because you told me the light hurt my skin,” I said. “You told me the children in the neighborhood would be frightened.”

A woman in the back row of guests lowered her head, wiping a tear from her eye.

Mr. Harrison stepped forward, his face pale with anger.

“This is monstrous, Richard,” Mr. Harrison said. “The board will be having an emergency meeting tomorrow morning.”

“This is a private family matter, Arthur,” Father said, turning to him. “It does not concern the firm.”

“It concerns the firm when its senior partner is using a child’s medical settlement as a personal piggy bank,” Mr. Harrison said.

He turned and walked toward the side gate, his wife following closely behind.

Within seconds, the other guests began to move, leaving in a silent, hurried rush.

No one said goodbye.

The only sound was the clinking of heels on the gravel path and the distant slamming of car doors in the driveway.

Soon, only the four of us remained on the patio, beneath the festive paper lanterns that now seemed mockingly bright.