I turned.
My mother looked as though the ten years between Ethan’s birth and this afternoon had settled onto her face in a single hour.
Dad stood beside her holding the ridiculous white cake.
Its red frosting letters suddenly looked painfully childish.
CONGRATULATIONS FROM YOUR REAL MOM.
Dad looked down at it.
Then at me.
“I didn’t order this,” he said.
Mom grimaced.
“I did.”
Denise stared at her.
“You told me you were getting a graduation cake.”
“I thought it would be nice.”
“You wrote that?”
Mom’s eyes moved toward the floor.
“I didn’t think—”
“No,” Denise said quietly. “You didn’t.”
There was no shouting.
No scene.
Somehow that made the truth sharper.
Jonathan, who had remained several steps behind Denise through everything, finally approached.
He carried himself like a man accustomed to entering rooms where decisions were already halfway made, but when he reached Ethan he did not extend a hand or begin talking.
