Covered in thick pink frosting.
And decorated with pink roses.
Not elegant roses.
Lopsided, imperfect little shapes that looked as though someone had piped them with enormous concentration.
Hannah grinned.
“I made it with Mom at the bakery! I did the flowers myself. They’re not very good!”
I looked at the cake.
“They’re perfect.”
And I meant it.
Everyone came inside.
My little apartment quickly filled with laughter.
Ruth settled into my favorite chair.
Dad found plates and forks.
Camille arranged thirty-five candles on the cake.
It took her several minutes.
Then everyone sang Happy Birthday.
Badly.
Dad was off-key.
Hannah sang louder than everyone else.
Ruth clapped along.
I closed my eyes, made a wish, and blew out the candles.
Then Mom picked up the cake knife.
For a moment, she simply looked at the pink roses.
I wondered whether she remembered.
Then she carefully cut the first slice.
A generous piece from the center.
The one with the most frosting.
And three of Hannah’s crooked little roses.
She placed it on a plate.
Then turned toward me.
“Here, Olivia.”
I didn’t move.
I stared at the cake.
At the roses.
At my mother’s hands.
Something inside me tightened.
“Mom,” I whispered, “shouldn’t the guests go first?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
Her voice was gentle but certain.
“You go first.”
My eyes filled.
She stepped closer and carefully placed the plate in my hands.
“You didn’t pay for this cake, Olivia.”
I froze.
Then she smiled through her tears.
“And that’s exactly why you deserve to enjoy it.”
I looked at her.
For twenty-six years, those words had lived inside me like a punishment.
*You didn’t pay for that.*
Now she was saying them again.
But this time, they meant something entirely different.
I didn’t have to purchase the cake.
I didn’t have to organize the party.
I didn’t have to prove I was useful.
I didn’t have to earn a seat.
I could simply be loved.
I looked around the room.
Hannah was grinning proudly.
Camille was wiping tears from her cheeks.
Dad stood holding a fork, smiling.
Ruth watched from the armchair with the same gentle expression she’d worn that night at Alderwood.
And Mom stood before me, finally offering the first piece instead of the last.
I took a bite.
The frosting was far too sweet.
The cake was a little uneven.
