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.
