Chapter 1

By seven fifteen, the ninth candle had burned low enough to spill pink wax into Lucy's frosting, and Grant's chair was still empty.

Every time tires made a soft hiss on the wet street, Lucy lifted her head toward the front window. The last two girls from her class had already been collected, their paper crowns abandoned beside crumpled napkins, but she remained at the table in her purple party dress with both hands tucked beneath her thighs. That morning, Grant had kissed her hair and promised he would be home before we lit the candles.

At three, he had texted that Olivia's co-ed baby shower needed help with setup and promised half an hour. Men attending was normal, and Olivia had been his friend since college. I repeated both facts while frosting cupcakes and watched Grant's thirty minutes become four hours.

Lucy watched me call again. "Maybe Dad can't hear his phone."

Music thundered through the line when the call finally connected. "It's loud here. Stall her a little longer, okay? I'll leave soon."

Before I could tell him there was no one left to stall, he ended the call. Heat crawled up the back of my neck. My old excuse—traffic, an emergency, anything—rose automatically, because smoothing over Grant's absences had become as ordinary as clearing plates. Then my screen lit with a social-media notification.

Olivia stood beneath a balloon arch, one hand curved over her belly. Grant was beside her, guiding the knife through a blue-and-white cake while guests crowded around them. In his other hand, he held a card shaped like a tiny onesie. The photo had been posted two minutes earlier.

Lucy leaned toward the screen before I could turn it facedown. Her gaze stayed on her father's smile. "Did he forget my birthday?"

The lie reached my tongue and stopped there. Grant had not forgotten the date. He had remembered enough to ask me to delay it for him.

I pulled out the chair beside her. "He knows it's your birthday. I don't know when he's coming home. You can wait, or we can have your cake now. This part is your choice."

Her lower lip tightened. For one foolish second, I wanted her to choose waiting, because then I would not have to admit what his empty chair meant. A drop of wax slid onto the painted nine, and Lucy looked from it to the dark window.

Her voice barely crossed the table. "Cake now."

I relit the short candle, called the remaining family members back from the kitchen, and placed the knife in Lucy's hand. We sang without Grant. Her first slice leaned sideways, thick with wax-stained icing, but when I passed it to her, she took a bite instead of watching the door.

By nine forty-three, the house had settled into the stale quiet left after a party. Deflated balloons tapped the ceiling vent while I tied trash bags beneath the warm kitchen light, and Lucy's abandoned paper crown sagged beside Grant's empty plate. His text lit the dark counter: Save me a piece.

He did not ask whether Lucy had cried. I put one slice in the refrigerator, then carried the gifts upstairs. Lucy followed, rolling her bright camera strap around her fingers.

"Mom, is my camera still in Dad's car?"

I opened the hall closet where I had hidden the wrapped box that morning. The shelf was bare.