I looked at her for a long moment.
Twelve years old.
Almost thirteen.
Smart.
Observant.
And already determined not to disappear into the background.
“They’ll know, sweetheart,” I promised.
“And if they don’t, I’ll remind them.”
Last
week, I turned thirty-five.
I hadn’t planned a party.
Usually, I spend my birthdays quietly.
Teresa brings me a cupcake at work.
Then I go home, order dinner, and watch a movie.
But that evening, around six o’clock, someone knocked on my apartment door.
When I opened it, Hannah stood outside holding a cake.
Behind her were Camille, Dad, Ruth, and Mom.
“Happy birthday, Aunt Liv!” Hannah shouted.
I stared at them.
The cake was homemade.
Two layers, slightly uneven.
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.
