My Sister “Forgot” My 5-Year-Old at the Store to Protect Her Daughter’s Birthday Spotlight—So I Turned Family Dinner Into a Reckoning They Never Saw Coming

Family dinners at my mother’s house were never just meals. They were performances—auditions, really—where everyone played their part and pretended not to remember the last time someone cried in the hallway.

The table was always too small for the number of plates. The air always smelled like roasted meat and simmering resentment. And my sister, Brianna, always sat at the center of everything like the room belonged to her.

That night was supposed to be harmless.

It was a birthday dinner for Brianna’s daughter, Lacey—seven years old, all dimples and glitter shoes. My own daughter, Rosie, had turned five the week before. A quiet birthday—just cupcakes at school, a cheap balloon, and a stuffed bunny she’d named Mr. Hops. She was still telling strangers it was his birthday too.

I’d brought a gift for Lacey, wrapped in purple paper with a bow Rosie insisted was “the fancy kind.” Rosie had drawn a card with a crooked stick figure family and a sun in the corner with lashes. She took her art seriously. She took love seriously too.

Brianna took attention seriously.

The second we walked in, I felt it—the invisible measuring tape my sister used on every moment. Who looked at who first. Who complimented which child. Whose laugh landed. Whose voice got heard.

My mother, Judith, played along like it was a sport and Brianna was her favored team.

“Lacey, sweetheart!” Mom sang, scooping her up dramatically even though Lacey was too big for it now. “My birthday girl! Everyone look at her—look how beautiful she is!”

Rosie stood beside me, holding her own little gift bag, eyes wide and hopeful. I watched her smile falter, just slightly, like a candle flickering in a draft.

I leaned down. “We’re here for Lacey tonight, okay? But we’ll still have fun.”

Rosie nodded, too eager to disagree. “I brought her a card. I drew a unicorn.”

“That’s perfect,” I told her. “She’ll love it.”

Brianna swept in wearing a satin top that screamed “look at me,” hair curled into waves that took time and a grudge to maintain.

“Avery,” she said—my name—like it tasted bland. Then her eyes landed on Rosie. A quick scan. Assessing. Calculating.

“Oh,” she said, bright and fake. “You brought her.”

I felt heat rise in my neck. “Yeah. She’s family.”

Brianna’s smile didn’t move. “Mm. Well—just so we’re all clear—it’s Lacey’s day. She’s been so excited. She doesn’t want… distractions.”

Rosie’s small fingers tightened around the gift bag handle. I saw it. I saw the tiny hurt bloom in her.

I inhaled slowly. “Rosie won’t distract anyone.”

Brianna shrugged. “Kids are kids.”

My mother clapped her hands. “Alright! Everyone, table! We’re eating before the food gets cold.”

Dinner started with the usual polite lies.

The chicken was “amazing.” The mashed potatoes were “perfect.” Brianna’s new haircut was “so flattering.” Lacey’s dress was “like a princess.”

Rosie sat in a booster chair I brought from home because my mother refused to keep one. She swung her legs and watched Lacey open a few early gifts.

“Can I give her mine now?” Rosie asked.

“Not yet,” Brianna said quickly, too quick. “After cake. We’re doing gifts after cake.”

My mother nodded. “After cake.”

Rosie looked at me, confused. “But… I want her to have it.”

“Later, honey,” I murmured.

Brianna’s husband, Kyle, watched everything with the expression of someone who’d learned survival through silence. He ate his food, drank his beer, and kept his eyes down like a man trying to avoid stepping on landmines.

My stepdad—Mom’s second husband—had the decency not to show up. He’d told me years ago, quietly, “Your mother likes her family best when they don’t speak.” Then he’d left, and Mom acted like he’d evaporated.

Halfway through dinner, Rosie leaned toward Lacey. “I had a birthday too,” she said softly, like she was offering a fun fact.

Lacey smiled. “Oh! Did you get cake?”

Rosie lit up. “Yes! And I had sprinkles. And my bunny—Mr. Hops—he had—”

Brianna slammed her fork down. Not hard enough to break, but loud enough to cut the room.

“Rosie,” she said, honeyed poison, “we’re not talking about other birthdays tonight.”

Rosie blinked. “I just—”

“No,” Brianna said, still smiling. “We’re celebrating Lacey.”

My mother chimed in without missing a beat. “Yes, Rosie. We don’t steal the spotlight from the birthday girl.”

Rosie’s cheeks turned pink. Her eyes flicked to me, searching for rescue.

I set my fork down. “She’s five, Brianna. She’s making conversation.”

Brianna tilted her head. “Conversation about herself.”

“She’s excited,” I said. “She’s a child.”

“And so is Lacey,” Brianna snapped. “And Lacey deserves one night where she doesn’t have to compete for attention.”

I stared at her. “Compete? With a five-year-old?”

Brianna’s eyes flashed. “You always do this. You always act like your kid is the center of everything.”

My mother nodded like Brianna had just spoken scripture. “Avery, maybe you should teach Rosie manners.”

Rosie’s lower lip trembled. She looked down at her plate, stabbing a green bean like it had betrayed her.

My stomach knotted so tight I felt nauseous.

“Rosie,” I said gently, “why don’t you go wash your hands? Cake is soon.”

She nodded quickly, eager to escape the tension, and slid off her booster seat.

The moment she left the table, Brianna exhaled loudly like she’d been holding her breath. “Thank God. I swear, you let her talk like she’s an adult and then she thinks she gets to be involved.”

“She is involved,” I said through my teeth. “She’s family.”

“Family knows their place,” Mom said, sipping her wine.

Kyle coughed into his napkin.

Lacey looked between us, confused but quiet. The birthday crown on her head felt suddenly ridiculous, like a prop in a play that had gotten too real.

A few minutes later Rosie returned, hands still damp, smelling faintly of the cheap lavender soap my mom bought in bulk.

Brianna’s face softened in a way that scared me more than her anger.

“Avery,” she said, too sweet, “Rosie seems… restless.”

“She’s fine,” I said cautiously.

Brianna leaned toward Rosie, smile bright. “Hey, Rosie. Want to come with Aunt Bri and pick out Lacey’s special extra gift? Just you and me.”

Rosie’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Brianna nodded. “We’ll go to the little store down the street. We’ll pick something fun. It’ll be our little secret.”

My gut screamed.

I stared at Brianna. “Why can’t Kyle go? Or you can go alone?”

Brianna laughed lightly. “Oh my God, Avery. It’s literally the corner store. I’m not kidnapping her.”

My mother rolled her eyes. “Let her go. You’re always so dramatic.”

Rosie tugged my sleeve. “Mommy, can I go? Please? I want to help.”

I looked at my daughter’s hopeful face—at how desperately she wanted to be included, to be good, to be liked by a family that treated her like background noise.

I hated that I hesitated.

But I did.

Because I knew my sister. I knew the spite she could disguise as generosity.

I also knew we were in my mother’s house, in my mother’s rules, and saying no would turn into a fight that Rosie would hear anyway.

“Okay,” I said slowly. “But you hold her hand the whole time.”

Brianna held up two fingers like a scout. “Promise.”

Rosie bounced, grabbed her coat. “I’ll be quick!”

Brianna stood, already pulling out her keys. “We’ll be right back.”

They walked out together.

I watched from the window as they crossed the driveway and headed toward the sidewalk. Brianna’s hand was holding Rosie’s—until they reached the corner and Brianna let go to check her phone.

Rosie kept walking beside her, small legs hustling to keep up.

Then they disappeared from view.

My heartbeat didn’t slow again after that.

At first, I tried to breathe and pretend it was normal.

Mom started clearing plates, humming. Lacey opened another gift. Kyle asked me a question about work that I didn’t answer.

Ten minutes passed.

Fifteen.

My phone stayed silent.

I stood to look out the window again, feeling ridiculous and paranoid.

Nothing.

Twenty minutes.

Brianna’s car hadn’t returned.

I turned toward Mom. “How far is this store?”

Mom shrugged. “A few blocks. Brianna’s probably letting Rosie pick something. You should be grateful.”

I didn’t feel grateful. I felt like my stomach was full of cold stones.

Thirty minutes.

I called Brianna’s phone.

It rang. Then went to voicemail.

I called again.

Voicemail.

Kyle finally looked up. “Bri’s not answering?”

I forced a smile. “Probably busy.”

But my voice was too tight. Everyone heard it.

My mother sighed dramatically. “Avery, relax. Brianna’s responsible. You act like she’s a monster.”

I stared at her. “She’s not answering.”

My mother picked up her wine again. “She’s at a store. Some places have bad reception.”

Kyle stood halfway, as if he might help, then sat back down when Brianna’s absence made him powerless.

At forty minutes, the front door opened.

My heart leapt.

I turned—

And Brianna walked in alone.

No Rosie.

No coat. No bouncing little girl voice. No footsteps behind her.

Just Brianna, calm as a woman returning from a quick errand.

I froze. The room tilted.

Brianna shut the door, hung her coat like she had all the time in the world, and looked at us with a faint smirk.

I heard my own voice before I felt it. “Where’s Rosie?”

Brianna’s eyes met mine. Her smirk deepened.

“Oh,” she said, light and lazy. “Sorry. I must’ve forgotten her at the store.”

For a second, my brain refused to process the words. Like language itself had broken.

I blinked. “What?”

My mother laughed—laughed—a short little chuckle like Brianna had told a joke.

“Don’t worry,” Mom said. “You’ll find her there eventually.”

Brianna shrugged and added, “Maybe she’ll learn not to steal my daughter’s thunder.”

The room went dead silent.

I felt my blood rush so loud I couldn’t hear anything else for a beat.

Then I moved.

I don’t remember standing up. I don’t remember my chair scraping back.

I remember my hands slamming onto the table so hard the plates rattled.

“What did you just say?” My voice sounded like someone else’s.

Brianna rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, relax. She’s at the store. It’s not like she’s—”

“She’s five,” I said, shaking. “You left my five-year-old alone—”

“She’ll be fine,” my mother cut in. “Stop being hysterical. You always make everything—”

I grabbed my car keys off the counter so hard the keychain snapped, plastic beads scattering on the floor.

Kyle stood up, finally. “Bri, what the hell?”

Brianna shrugged again, too casual, too cruel. “She was being annoying. She kept talking about her birthday. Like—this is Lacey’s day.”

My vision blurred with rage.

I stepped toward Brianna. “You don’t punish a child for talking.”

Brianna’s face sharpened. “You don’t raise one to think she’s special.”

That was the moment something in me—something old, something that had been trained for years to stay polite and quiet in my mother’s house—broke clean in half.

I pointed at Brianna, hand trembling. “Where. Is. The. Store.”

Brianna tilted her head. “You know where it is.”

“Tell me,” I said, voice low. “Now.”

My mother’s face hardened. “Avery, don’t talk to your sister like that.”

I turned to my mother, heat flooding my whole body. “Don’t talk to me like that. You’re backing her up after she abandoned my child.”

My mother’s eyes narrowed. “Abandoned? For God’s sake. She left her in a public place for a few minutes. People do it all the time.”

“No,” Kyle snapped. “They don’t.”

Brianna waved him off. “Kyle, sit down.”

Kyle didn’t.

Lacey sat frozen in her chair, clutching a fork, eyes huge.

I hated that she had to see it. But I hated more that Rosie was alone somewhere, scared, wondering why nobody came back for her.

I shoved past them toward the door.

Brianna called after me, sweet as syrup. “Tell Rosie happy birthday from me!”

I spun, and the fury finally spilled over.

I grabbed the big glass bowl of leftover mashed potatoes off the counter and hurled it—not at a person, but onto the kitchen floor.

It exploded in a wet, disgusting slap, white mush splattering cabinets, tile, the bottom of the table leg.

Everyone screamed at once.

My mother shrieked, “Are you insane?!”

Brianna jumped back. “Oh my God!”

Kyle shouted, “Avery—!”

I didn’t care. The sound in my head was louder than all of them.

“My daughter is missing,” I said, voice shaking, “and you’re laughing.”

My mother advanced, furious. “You are not going to come into my house and—”

“Your house?” I snapped. “Your house is a sick little stage where you let Brianna hurt people because it makes you feel powerful.”

Brianna’s eyes flashed. “Don’t you dare talk to Mom like—”

I grabbed a chair—my chair—lifted it just enough that it scraped, and shoved it over.

It toppled with a crash, hitting the tile, legs in the air.

The noise made Lacey start crying.

My mother’s face went red with outrage. “You’re disgusting.”

I laughed—one harsh, ugly sound. “No. What’s disgusting is leaving a five-year-old alone to teach her a ‘lesson.’”

Brianna’s voice turned shrill. “She’s not alone! The cashier knows her!”

My stomach dropped.

“The cashier knows her?” I repeated slowly. “So you planned this.”

Brianna’s eyes widened for half a second—caught.

Then she recovered, sneering. “She knows Rosie from when you drag her in there for candy.”

My hands shook so hard I almost dropped my keys.

Kyle moved between us. “Enough. Bri, tell her where Rosie is. Like, exactly.”

Brianna threw her hands up. “Corner store on Maple. Happy?”

Maple.

Two blocks away, but two blocks might as well be a thousand when it’s your child alone.

I yanked the door open.

My mother shouted after me, “If you leave right now, don’t bother coming back!”

I spun, eyes burning. “You think I’m the one who should be worried about being cut off?”

Then I ran.

Outside, the cold air slapped my face, sharp as betrayal. My breath came out in clouds. My hands shook on the steering wheel.

I drove like a maniac, tires crunching over gravel, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

The store came into view—bright lights, a flickering sign, a little bell on the door that chimed when you entered.

I threw my car into a crooked park job and bolted inside.

The heat hit me, along with the smell of cheap coffee and motor oil and candy.

“Rosie!” I shouted.

A man behind the counter looked up, startled.

Then I saw her.

Rosie sat on the floor near the greeting cards, hugging her gift bag to her chest like a life jacket. Her cheeks were wet. Her little face was scrunched in confusion and fear, trying so hard to be brave.

When she saw me, her whole body jolted like she’d been holding her breath for an hour.

“Mommy!” she cried, scrambling up so fast she tripped, then ran into my arms.

I dropped to my knees and wrapped her so tight I felt her ribs.

“I’m here,” I whispered. “I’m here. I’m so sorry.”

She sobbed into my shoulder. “Aunt Bri said she had to get something and she’d come back and then she didn’t and I waited and I waited and the man—” She hiccuped, pointing at the cashier—“he gave me water and he said you would come but I was scared.”

I looked up at the cashier. He looked angry—real angry.

“You her mom?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, voice shaking. “Yes. Thank you for staying with her.”

His jaw tightened. “That woman left her here and said ‘she’s fine.’ Like she was dropping off a package. I asked the kid if she knew her phone number. She didn’t. She kept saying ‘my mommy is coming.’”

My stomach twisted. Rosie didn’t know my number because she was five. Because she didn’t need to memorize emergency plans in a world where adults were supposed to be safe.

“She did this on purpose,” I said, more to myself than him.

The cashier nodded. “I was about to call the cops.”

I swallowed hard. “I should’ve been faster.”

Rosie clung to me like a vine. “Did I do bad?” she whispered. “Aunt Bri said I was taking Lacey’s thunder and I don’t know what thunder is.”

My eyes burned.

“No,” I said firmly, pulling back to look at her face. “You did nothing bad. Nothing. Aunt Bri was wrong.”

Rosie sniffled. “But… Lacey’s birthday…”

“Lacey can have a birthday,” I said, voice cracking, “and you can still be loved.”

Rosie stared at me like she was trying to understand a new rule of the universe.

I kissed her forehead. “Come on. We’re leaving.”

I thanked the cashier again, grabbed Rosie’s coat that Brianna had apparently left by the door like an afterthought, and carried my daughter out to the car.

Rosie’s arms stayed wrapped around my neck, tight.

As I buckled her into the seat, my hands steadied—not because I calmed down, but because something else took over.

Purpose.

A clean, cold clarity.

I wasn’t going back to my mother’s house to “talk it out.”

I was going back to make sure something like this never happened again.

When we pulled into the driveway, I saw through the window that the kitchen was still chaos—mashed potatoes smeared on tile, a chair overturned, napkins scattered like surrender flags.

Brianna stood with her arms crossed, smug as ever. My mother paced, furious, gesturing dramatically.

Kyle stood near the sink, scrubbing something like he could wash the evening away.

I walked in holding Rosie’s hand.

The moment they saw her, my mother’s face shifted into fake concern.

“Oh, there she is!” Mom exclaimed. “See? Fine.”

Brianna smirked. “Told you.”

Rosie shrank closer to me.

I crouched. “Rosie, sweetheart, go sit in the living room and watch the cartoon. Don’t come back in until I tell you, okay?”

Rosie nodded, eyes big, and hurried away.

The second she was out of earshot, I stood up and looked at Brianna.

“You abandoned my child,” I said, voice calm. Too calm.

Brianna rolled her eyes. “She was safe.”

“You don’t know what safe means,” I said. “You know what convenient means.”

My mother snapped, “Avery, you embarrassed yourself. Look at this mess!”

I looked down at the mashed potatoes on the floor—smeared, ugly, wasted. Then I looked at her.

“This?” I said. “This is potatoes. My daughter is a person.”

My mother’s face twisted. “You’re overreacting.”

Kyle finally spoke, voice shaking with anger he’d clearly swallowed for years. “No, Judith. She’s not.”

My mother whirled on him. “Kyle, stay out of it.”

Kyle stepped forward. “No. I won’t. Because what Bri did was sick.”

Brianna’s eyes went wide with disbelief. “Oh my God, Kyle. Are you actually siding with her?”

Kyle’s jaw clenched. “I’m siding with the fact that leaving a kid alone is insane.”

Brianna laughed, sharp. “It’s not like she was in a ditch.”

I stared at her. “You said you forgot her.”

Brianna lifted her chin. “Yeah. As a joke.”

My voice dropped. “I want you to say that in front of a police officer.”

The room froze.

My mother’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare.”

I pulled out my phone. “I’m calling non-emergency. I’m making a report. The cashier was about to call the police himself.”

Brianna’s smugness finally cracked. “You wouldn’t.”

I looked her dead in the eye. “Try me.”

My mother lunged toward me, reaching for my phone. “Give me that!”

I stepped back. “Touch me and I’ll press charges too.”

The words shocked even me.

But the shock did something important—it pushed the room into truth.

My mother stopped, breathing hard, staring at me like she’d never seen me.

Maybe she hadn’t. Not like this.

Brianna’s voice went tight. “Avery. Stop. You’re being dramatic. It was a lesson.”

“A lesson,” I repeated, and my disgust rose like bile. “For what? For existing?”

Brianna snapped, “For trying to make everything about her!”

I took a step closer, eyes blazing. “She’s five. She said she had a birthday. That’s not stealing thunder. That’s being a child.”

My mother hissed, “You’re raising her to be selfish.”

Kyle slammed his hand on the counter. “Judith! Enough!”

My mother recoiled like Kyle had slapped her.

Brianna’s face twisted with rage. “This is supposed to be Lacey’s night!”

“And you were willing to endanger my daughter for a night,” I said. “That’s who you are.”

Brianna’s voice rose. “You always think you’re better than me!”

I laughed, bitter. “Better? Bri, I’m just not cruel.”

Brianna moved suddenly, grabbing a wrapped gift off the table—one of Lacey’s—and flung it.

It hit the wall and burst open, spilling a doll and plastic accessories across the floor.

Lacey screamed.

The sound made my stomach drop. Because now another child was getting hurt by the adults’ ugliness.

My mother shouted, “Brianna!”

Brianna’s chest heaved. “She ruined it! She ruined everything with her stupid kid!”

Kyle stared at Brianna like he didn’t recognize her. “What is wrong with you?”

Brianna turned on him, eyes wild. “Don’t you dare judge me!”

Kyle’s hands shook. “You left a five-year-old. Alone. On purpose.”

Brianna spat, “And she lived.”

That was the moment I felt something inside me go cold and final.

I bent down, picked up the torn wrapping paper, the doll, the scattered accessories, and set them on the table—carefully, deliberately.

Then I looked at Lacey, who was crying, her face red, her birthday crown crooked.

“Lacey,” I said gently, “I’m sorry the grown-ups are acting like this.”

Brianna shouted, “Don’t talk to her!”

Kyle snapped, “Let her.”

I turned back to Brianna and my mother.

“I’m leaving,” I said. “And you’re not seeing Rosie again until there are boundaries.”

My mother scoffed. “Boundaries. What a trendy word.”

I nodded slowly. “Yes. It’s trendy among people who don’t tolerate abuse.”

My mother’s face hardened. “You can’t keep her from me.”

I looked her straight in the eyes. “Watch me.”

Brianna lunged toward me then, grabbing at my sleeve. “You’re not taking her away because of a joke!”

I shoved her hand off—not hard, but firm.

“Don’t touch me,” I said.

Brianna’s nails had dug into my sweater. I could feel the sting through fabric.

My mother stepped forward, rage shaking her whole frame. “After everything I’ve done for you—”

“Everything you’ve done?” I said, voice shaking now with a different kind of emotion. “You’ve spent my whole life teaching Brianna she can do anything she wants and teaching me to swallow it.”

My mother’s mouth opened, then closed. Her eyes flashed.

Brianna sneered, “Because you always play victim.”

I smiled—small, ugly. “No. Today, I’m playing mother.”

I walked into the living room, scooped Rosie into my arms, and grabbed our coats.

Rosie’s eyes were watery again. “Are we going home?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “We’re going home.”

As I turned toward the door, my mother’s voice cut through the house like a whip.

“If you walk out, don’t come crawling back!”

I paused at the threshold.

Then I said, calmly, “I won’t.”

And I left.

At home, Rosie fell asleep on the couch with her bunny tucked under her chin like a guard dog. I sat on the floor beside her, watching her chest rise and fall until my heartbeat finally slowed enough to feel like my body belonged to me again.

Then I did what I should’ve done years ago.

I documented everything.

I wrote down the time Brianna left. The time she returned. Her exact words. My mother’s exact words. The cashier’s name and the store address. I called the store and asked for his last name so I could include it if needed. He gave it willingly, still angry on Rosie’s behalf.

I didn’t call the police that night—Rosie was safe, and the thought of officers and questions and uniforms around her made my stomach twist. But I filed an incident report online the next day, attaching my notes, including that the store employee had been prepared to call.

Not because I wanted revenge.

Because I wanted a record.

Because people like my sister and my mother thrived on rewriting history.

A record doesn’t argue. It just exists.

The next morning, my mother called me.

I let it go to voicemail.

Her message was tight, furious, dripping with righteousness.

“Avery, this is ridiculous. You’re making everyone look bad. Call me.”

Brianna texted two hours later.

you’re psycho. you ruined lacey’s birthday.

I stared at the screen, then typed one sentence:

You left my child alone on purpose. You are not safe.

Then I blocked her.

My hands shook afterward, not from fear, but from the strange withdrawal you feel when you stop taking poison you were raised to drink.

Later that day, Kyle called.

His voice sounded tired in a way that made me ache.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know she’d do that. I didn’t know your mom would back her up like that.”

I swallowed. “You saw it.”

“I did,” he said. “And… I’m ashamed.”

I didn’t have energy to comfort him. “Is Lacey okay?”

He exhaled. “She cried herself to sleep. Brianna’s furious at everyone. She keeps saying you ‘stole the attention.’”

My jaw clenched. “I didn’t steal anything. She threw it away.”

Kyle was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah.”

“Is your daughter… okay?”

I looked at Rosie, now awake, coloring at the kitchen table like nothing had happened. Children are heartbreakingly resilient until they aren’t.

“She’s okay,” I said. “But she asked me if she ‘did bad.’ So no—she’s not okay. Not completely.”

Kyle’s voice cracked. “God.”

I softened slightly. “Kyle… Lacey is watching. She’s learning this is normal.”

“I know,” he whispered.

That call didn’t fix anything. But it confirmed something I’d been afraid to admit: even inside their house, not everyone agreed with the cruelty. Some people were just too exhausted to fight it.

I wasn’t exhausted anymore.

I was done.

Two weeks later, I hosted Rosie’s “second birthday.”

Not because she needed more gifts.

Because she needed the opposite of what my sister tried to teach her.

She needed proof that love wasn’t a competition.

I invited friends. Teachers from her preschool. The neighbor who always waved. A couple moms from the playground who’d become real friends in that quiet, “we’re both tired, but we see each other” way.

We had cupcakes. We had balloons. We had a silly crown Rosie wore while declaring, loudly, “This is my thunder!”

People laughed—not at her, but with her.

And when she blew out her candles, everyone clapped like her joy mattered.

That night, as I tucked her into bed, she looked up at me and whispered, “Mommy?”

“Yes, baby.”

“Am I allowed to talk about my birthday?”

My throat tightened.

“Yes,” I said firmly. “Always.”

Rosie nodded, satisfied, then hugged Mr. Hops.

And for the first time since that awful dinner, I felt something unclench in my chest.

Because I realized what I’d made.

Not a scene. Not a mess.