It was pale blue, sweet enough to make your teeth ache, and Liam had chosen it himself—leaning over the bakery counter months ago with all the seriousness of a kid making an executive decision. He’d counted down on a calendar taped to our fridge with a marker, crossing out days like he was carving his way toward something sacred.
Nine felt sacred to him.
Nine meant he was “almost double digits.” Nine meant he could have soccer and pizza and the unicorn cake and all the kids from class at the park, and maybe—maybe—his grandma would show up and clap and act like he mattered.
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That was why I was in my mother’s kitchen in the first place.
My mom insisted Liam’s birthday party be “done right.” Her words. Done right, like it was a business presentation.
So I’d driven over with the order form, and Liam’s invitation list, and the same tired hope I always carried when I wanted my mother to behave like a normal grandmother.
Her kitchen was immaculate, as usual. Granite counters, spotless sink, dish towel folded just so, the kind of space where nothing ever looked lived-in because my mother didn’t allow mess to exist long enough to become real.