The vintage sapphire brooch sat on the corner of the desk, its blue velvet box looking small and discarded.
I walked out of the room, the office door closing with a soft rattle against the frame.
The drive to the suburbs took forty minutes through the evening traffic, the headlights of the other cars reflecting off the wet pavement.
When I reached the front walkway of my parents’ colonial home, the yellow porch light was already on, casting long shadows across the dry leaves.
I rang the bell, my hands deep in my coat pockets to keep them warm.
My mother opened the door only a few inches, her eyes widening when she saw me.
Her hand flew to her throat, her fingers brushing against her collarbone.
Olivia, she said, her voice a soft whisper. What are you doing here? Your father said he spoke to you.
He did, I said. He told me Melissa made up a story to keep me from your birthday.
Nancy looked over her shoulder, toward the dark hallway behind her, as if she expected someone to be listening.
Please, Olivia, she said. Do not do this tonight. Your sister is trying very hard to make things work.
I am your daughter too, I said. Why does she get to decide who celebrates your birthday?
She reached behind the door and produced a covered aluminum baking pan, pressing it into my chest.
I made too much lasagna, Nancy said, her voice trembling slightly. Take this home. You work too hard to cook.
I did not take the pan immediately, letting it sit between us.
I do not want food, Mother, I said. I want you to tell me why you are doing this.
We want the evening to be peaceful, Olivia, Nancy said, her voice dropping to a plea. Please. Just let us have this one night.
She pushed the cold metal pan into my hands and stepped back.
