You remember the morning in the kitchen. Rosa looking around nervously. Rosa hiding the plastic bag in her backpack. In your world, secrecy meant theft. You never considered that shame could look the same.
You take one step closer to the table.
That is when you see the small candle.
It is bent, old, and almost melted to nothing. It stands in the middle of a tiny piece of cake, the kind cut from leftover dessert. Around it, the children had drawn flowers on a napkin with blue pen.
“Whose birthday is it?” you ask, though your voice barely sounds like yours.
The little boy raises his hand slowly.
“Mine,” he says.
Rosa’s face crumples. “Mateo turned seven today.”
You look at the boy.
Seven.
At seven, you had a private tutor, a room full of toys, and a birthday party with a rented magician you forgot by the next week. Mateo has one dying candle, leftover cake, and a mother who carried discarded food across the city like treasure.
You feel something crack open inside your chest.
But pride fights back.
