They Let a Child Humiliate Me at the Birthday Table. By Morning, the Car Was Gone and Someone Was Knocking
“You are my legacy,” she finished, voice thick with emotion. “My heart.”
People clapped. Someone wiped away a tear.
My gift sat untouched on the sideboard.
It does not matter, I told myself. She will open it later. I had learned in grief counseling after my daughter died three years ago that you could only control what you offered, not how it was received.
“Grandma says she is buying me a used Mustang when I am sixteen,” Tyler announced to the table, grinning. “Right, Grandma?”
My mother laughed, pleased. “We will see, sweetheart.”
I thought of the rusted sedan my father had helped me buy at seventeen. The way my mother had shrugged and said, “That is more your father’s thing than mine.” No talk of Mustangs then. No indulgent laughter. That had been my role. Practical. Limited. Grateful for scraps.
No one asked about my store. About the fundraiser I had hosted two weeks ago that raised ten thousand dollars for the local shelter. No one asked how it felt to wake up every morning and pass the closed door of my daughter’s room, still untouched, still too quiet. The silence they wrapped around her name still hurt like a fresh bruise.
“You still doing that candle thing?” Mike asked suddenly.
“The store?” I began. “Yes, I am still running it full time.”
