Vivian hated the title. Not publicly, of course.
Whenever reporters mentioned it, she smiled politely. Whenever supporters used it, she thanked them graciously.
Whenever officials addressed her as "Future First Lady," she nodded and carried on.
But privately? She hated it. Not because there was anything wrong with the role.
But because it felt strange hearing her entire identity reduced to a title.
For years she had been Vivian.
A wife.
A friend.
A volunteer.
A woman who preferred meaningful conversations to public attention. Now people looked at her differently. Everywhere she went. The grocery store. Charity events.
Coffee shops. Church.
Even ordinary errands had become impossible. People stared. People whispered. People took photographs when they thought she wasn't looking.
Some approached for selfies.
Others simply wanted to shake her hand.
Most were kind. Very kind. But it was still an adjustment. A massive adjustment.
