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.
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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.
