She sighed, lifting the cake box lid. “Well, that looks rich. Too rich for a toddler.
Let’s cut the cake. Timmy is hungry, he’ll be here soon. And don’t expect me to sing Happy Birthday to something that can’t speak back.
I feel ridiculous singing to the air.”
Chapter 3: The Slap
We gathered around the dining table. The air was thick with tension. Lily sat in a high chair I had brought from the car because my parents had thrown away the old one, claiming it took up space.
The cake was beautiful—a vanilla sponge with raspberry filling, frosted with delicate pink roses. I had spent two hundred dollars on it. My mother took charge.
She didn’t ask who wanted a piece. She just started cutting. She cut a massive wedge, sliding it onto a paper plate.
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