Mister was asleep beside the window.
The white rose corsage I’d given Ruth for the anniversary party sat in a little glass of water on her kitchen table.
We settled into our usual chairs.
Then Ruth looked at me.
“Olivia, there’s something I should have told you years ago.”
Her expression was unusually serious.
“Something about your mother.”
I wrapped my hands around my teacup.
“What about her?”
Ruth began speaking about my grandmother Agnes.
She was Ruth’s older sister.
I barely remembered her.
She had died when I was very young.
“Your grandmother had two daughters,” Ruth explained. “Your mother, Margaret, and her sister Joyce.”
I nodded.
“Joyce was the charming one,” she continued. “Beautiful, popular, always surrounded by friends.”
My hands became still.
“Margaret was the responsible one. She worked after school and gave her wages to the family. She fixed problems. She helped everyone.”
A strange feeling settled over me.
Ruth watched my face.
“When your mother was ten, Agnes threw her a birthday party.”
I stopped breathing for a moment.
“There was a cake with pink frosting roses.”
My fingers tightened around the cup.
“Joyce invited several friends. Agnes served Joyce first, then her friends, then the other children.”
I stared at Ruth.
“Margaret reached for a piece.”
Ruth’s voice softened.
“And Agnes caught her wrist.”
I already knew what came next.
But I couldn’t stop listening.
“She told your mother not to be greedy because she hadn’t paid for the cake.”
The room went completely quiet.
I slowly set down my cup.
Ruth continued.
“By the time your mother was served, only a small corner piece remained. There were no roses left on it.”
I covered my mouth.
It was my birthday.
My ninth birthday.
The same words.
The same humiliation.
Even the same kind of cake.
I shook my head.
“That can’t be…”
Ruth reached across the table.
“When Margaret was nineteen, she sat right here and promised me she’d never treat her own children the way Agnes treated her.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“Then why did she do it to me?”
Ruth sighed.
“Because sometimes people repeat the very things that hurt them, especially when they’ve never understood or healed from those experiences.”
She paused.
“You remind your mother of herself, Olivia.”
I looked at her.
“The dependable daughter. The practical one. The person everyone expects to carry the responsibilities.”
