An entitled influencer livestreamed herself kicking my son’s sandcastle into the ocean because it “ruined her aesthetic”—twenty minutes later, the senior lifeguard marched toward her with a megaphone and a golden box. Then the only sound we could her was her scream.

For months, Noah had retreated into a shell. Then, one quiet evening in late June, he was digging through Simon’s old fishing tackle box in the garage and discovered the small fabric flag they used to plant on their castles. He had gripped the wooden stick, his knuckles white, and asked, “Mom, do you think Dad can still see the sandcastles I build for him?”

I had turned my face away to hide the tears before answering. Not because I had no idea what to say, but because I knew precisely what he needed to hear to survive the summer. “Yes, baby,” I told him. “I think he sees them.”

So, we returned to the exact spot. Noah worked with a solemn, monastic dedication for three grueling hours. He began with a broad, thick outer wall, smoothing every section with Simon’s old blue plastic shovel. Then he added the watchtowers—four at the corners, and one massive citadel in the dead center. He scavenged for unbroken seashells to serve as stained-glass windows and carved a deep, defensive trench around the perimeter using the heels of his feet.

I helped fetch water whenever he asked, but mostly, I just sat on our towel and watched. Now and then, a shadow of a smile would ghost across his face. He wasn’t entirely happy, but he was remembering how happiness felt.

By noon, the fortress was complete. Noah rinsed his hands in the ocean, returning with slow, measured steps, treating the wet sand like a minefield so as not to cause a seismic collapse. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the flag. Its cloth had faded through several relentless summers, and one corner was beginning to fray. Simon had once told Noah that the frayed edge made the flag look like it had survived a glorious battle.

“I’m putting it on the highest tower,” Noah chirped, his voice finding a strength I hadn’t heard in months. He stood tall, a proud little sentry. “It’s for Dad.”

He hadn’t even crouched down to plant it when the woman arrived.

She was impossible to ignore. A pale, sheer cover-up billowed behind her in the ocean breeze like a royal cape, demanding that the peasants part ways. She wore an oversized, wide-brimmed straw hat and dark, reflective sunglasses that hid half her face. But the most intrusive thing about her was the glowing smartphone she held high at arm’s length, securely mounted on a stabilizer gimbal.

“Hey guys, welcome back to the stream,” she projected loudly, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “We are live at the most gorgeous beach, and the vibes are just immaculate today—wait, hold on.”

She stopped directly in front of Noah’s castle. Not beside it. Right in the middle of his carefully carved moat.

“Seriously?” she hissed, the fake sweetness instantly evaporating.

Noah froze, the little flag still tightly clasped in his small hand.

The woman panned her phone downward, capturing the intricate sandcastle, and then flipped the camera back to her own disgusted expression. “Chat, look at this gross pile of mud. It’s completely ruining the aesthetic of my VIP spot. I can’t even get a clean wide shot of the water.”

I scrambled to my feet, brushing sand off my legs. “Excuse me,” I said, keeping my tone polite but firm. “We’ll be done in just a second. My son is just placing the flag.”

She peered over the rim of her sunglasses, looking at me as though I had just offered her a plate of garbage. “I’m literally in the middle of a live broadcast to sixty thousand people,” she scoffed. “Move your kid. This is my background.”

Before I could take another step forward to intervene, a hulking man wearing a tight tank top—presumably her boyfriend or bodyguard—stepped directly into my path, crossing his heavily tattooed arms. “The lady asked you to move, ma’am,” he grunted, blocking me entirely.

No. No, this isn’t happening, my mind raced. I tried to sidestep him. “Please, don’t touch that!” I yelled.

But the woman didn’t even look at me. Looking directly into her phone’s camera, she flashed a vicious, practiced smile. “Watch this, chat,” she chimed.

She swung her toned leg forward and kicked the tallest center tower.