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Her eyes looked like plates. “There’s cake?!”
When it was time, we turned off the lights. She climbed onto a chair.
Everyone sang. She looked around the room like she was memorizing each person.
“Make a wish,” Daniel said.
She squeezed her eyes shut, whispered something, and blew. All five candles went out.
Everyone clapped. She smiled so hard it looked like it hurt.
I’d just started cutting the cake when someone knocked.
Not a friendly tap. A hard, heavy knock that sliced through the music.
“I’ll get it,” I said, wiping my hands on a towel.
I opened the door, and my stomach dropped.
Early 30s, maybe. Too thin. Hair yanked into a ponytail.
Red eyes locked on something over my shoulder inside the house.
Behind me, kids yelled, “Sophie, hurry up!” and someone turned the music down.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
Her gaze flicked over the balloons and the pile of little shoes, then back to my face.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I need to talk to you. It’s about your daughter.”
My hands went cold.
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