Barron Trump didn’t enter the New Year’s Eve party like a celebrity kid hunting attention. He entered like someone trying to disappear while standing in the brightest place possible. Mar-a-Lago was loud, polished, crowded with big names and bigger egos, and there he was—nineteen, tall, quiet—posted beside his parents like a shadow that the cameras kept trying to turn into a headline.
People later called him “awkward.” Some called him “lonely.” Others decided, from one stiff clip, that they could diagnose his entire life. That’s the modern ritual: take ten seconds of footage, add a caption, and pretend you know the person better than the people who raised him.
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