Then someone outside shouted, “This food is amazing!”
Donald laughed.
“Talia insisted on doing everything. You know how she gets when she has a project.”
I stopped slicing tomatoes.
Another guest said, “She must really love you.”
“She loves hosting,” Donald replied. “I couldn’t stop her if I tried.”
My hand tightened around the knife.
He hadn’t just left me alone.
He’d rewritten the story.
The kitchen door opened.
Misha, the wife of Donald’s longtime friend Theo, entered carrying an empty ice bucket.
She looked at the counters, then at my cast.
“Because the food refused to cook itself.”
She didn’t smile.
“Donald said you wanted to handle everything.”
“He said that?”
“He told people you turned down catering.”
I couldn’t speak.
Misha set down the bucket.
“Do you want help?”
“You’re a guest, Misha. Go have fun.”
“So are the other 29 people. None of them are standing on one leg.”
“I can manage.”
The lie sounded thin.
Misha moved closer.
“You don’t have to make this look normal for him.”
My eyes burned.
“Could you carry those trays outside?” I asked.
“Of course.”
Before she left, she touched my shoulder.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
That was the difference.
***
A few minutes later, Diane entered carrying a wrapped gift and a covered dish.
She stopped when she saw me beside the stove.
“What are you doing, honey?”
“Finishing the cake.”
“I can see that. Why are you doing it alone?”
“Donald wanted a proper birthday.”
She glanced outside.
“He always loved a big fuss.”
The answer disappointed me.
I spread frosting between the layers.
“Didn’t he order food?” she asked.
“He decided it cost too much.”
“Did he help this morning?”
I kept working.
“No, Diane.”
Her mouth tightened.
“He told me you were excited about hosting.”
“Donald also thinks dropping his wet towel on the floor counts as choosing where it belongs.”
She almost smiled.
Then I shifted in the chair, and pain shot through my leg.
Diane noticed.
“How bad is it?”
“No, you aren’t.”
I set down the knife.
“The doctor told me to stay off it.”
“Donald heard that?”
“He was sitting beside me.”
Diane went still.
I had spent years softening the truth for her.
That day, I had nothing left.
“He said you would’ve done all this without complaining.”
Diane looked at the crowded counters.
I stared at her.
She pulled out a chair.
“Donald’s father expected every holiday to look effortless,” she said. “He helped only when people were watching. I thought staying quiet made me strong.”
“Did it?”
She looked toward the window, where Donald’s laughter carried inside.
“No. It made everyone comfortable except me.”
The cake needed to be moved.
I reached for my crutch.
“I’ll do it,” Diane said.
“It’s fine. I’ve got it.”
The words came out by habit.
I stood.
The rubber tip of my crutch landed in a puddle tracked in from the pool.
It slipped.
Diane caught me.
The cake plate struck the counter.
Then Donald rushed in and asked whether the cake was ruined.
Diane stared at him.
“But she didn’t.”
My leg pulsed.
Donald glanced at me.
“You’re okay, right?”
I knew what saying yes would mean: more music, more work, and more pretending.
So I stopped giving him the answer he wanted.
“No,” I said. “I’m not okay.”
Donald blinked.
Diane helped me sit and raised my leg.
“I’m ending this party,” she said.
He laughed once.
“Mom, don’t do this.”
She walked outside and switched off the music.
The silence pulled every head toward her.
“Before anyone eats cake,” Diane said, “my son needs to explain something.”
I reached for my crutches.
Misha appeared beside me.
“You don’t have to go out there.”
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
I moved slowly toward the patio.
