Evelyn’s birthday cake leaned slightly to the left, the pink frosting thicker on one side than the other. I noticed it the moment I set it down on the table, already preparing to apologize.
But Evelyn didn’t see the flaw. She never did.
“It’s beautiful, Mommy!” she said, clapping her hands with pure delight. “Can I do the sprinkles now?”
“Only if you promise not to eat half of them first,” I replied.
She crossed her heart with dramatic seriousness. “Promise.”
Tara, my best friend of nearly twenty years, watched from the doorway with a knowing smile, a banner tucked under her arm and tape looped around her wrist. “She’s going to be a sugar tornado by noon,” she said. “I’m staying to witness the chaos.”
“That’s the point of birthdays,” I laughed.
Tara had been there for everything. The miscarriages. The hospital rooms. The long silence that followed when hope got too heavy to carry. She lived three streets away and never knocked anymore. Evelyn called her Aunt Tara without anyone ever suggesting it.
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