I leaned down and kissed her cheek, breathing in the same floral perfume she had worn my entire childhood. It brought back memories I did not ask for. School mornings. Church Sundays. Her voice correcting my posture, my tone, my everything.

“Of course,” I said. “It is your birthday.”

She patted my arm absently, already turning back toward Irene. “Put that somewhere. We are about to do presents.”

It was not true. The table was already littered with opened gifts, ribbons trailing like shed skins. I carried my bag to the sideboard and set it down carefully. Between two oversized cakes and a stack of greeting cards, the small velvet box inside suddenly felt foolish. Too quiet. Too thoughtful for a room that rewarded flash.

My brother Mike appeared beside me with a beer in his hand. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his cheeks flushed, his voice already loose.

“You look tired,” he said. Not concerned. Assessing. “Store keeping you up nights?”

“It has been busy,” I replied.

He guided me toward a chair squeezed tightly between two women I did not know. “No seats left, but we made space for you. Did not we, Mom?”