Chapter 10 - The Purple Cake
The following June, Hazel turned nine.
This time, there were no thirty guests, no catering trays, and no high-stress backyard productions.
Just a small wooden picnic table on the patio, twelve chocolate cupcakes with purple buttercream frosting baked by Ava and Hazel together, and four people sitting around the table: Aaron, Ava, Hazel, and me. Susan and Frank dropped by earlier in the afternoon to drop off a handmade wooden dollhouse Frank had carved himself during the winter months, staying for a quiet cup of coffee before heading home. There was no tension, no guarded glances, and no performance.
When it was time for the single candle to be blown out, Hazel didn't look across the yard at anyone with suspicion or anger.
She stood on her chair—the same metal folding chair from the year before—and looked down at the single purple cupcake glowing in the fading evening light.
"Make a wish, kiddo," Aaron smiled, resting his hands on the back of her chair.
Hazel closed her eyes tight. Really tight. She didn't glare at the fence, and she didn't scan the perimeter for trouble.
She just smiled, took a deep breath, and blew out the candle in one strong, confident puff.
Ava clapped, and I reached over to squeeze Aaron’s hand across the table.
May you like
As the thin wisp of gray smoke curled up into the warm summer air, I realized something wonderful: we hadn't just survived the storm that Monica’s secrets had unleashed. We had cleared the wreckage, cleaned the books, and planted something real in the soil left behind.
The past was accounted for, the ledger was balanced, and our future was entirely our own.
