The night before Elise’s birthday I’m in the kitchen at eleven.

  On the counter there’s a sticky note soft at the corners from being handled many times. Strawberry, with the cream inside, not the frosting kind. Elise said this in September about a cake in a book. I wrote it down.

  I make the cake from scratch. I tested the cream filling once before in this same kitchen, alone, just to make sure it was right before I used it for her birthday. I decorate it slowly. The kind of slow that comes from knowing nobody is watching and doing it right anyway.

  When it’s done I step back.

  It’s beautiful.

  She’s going to love this.

  I smile at it in the quiet kitchen. This moment is mine and I hold it.

  I go to bed feeling something close to okay.

  In the morning Elise comes downstairs and stops dead in the doorway. Her mouth opens.

  “Mama.”

  “Happy birthday, baby.”

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  She runs to me and grabs my waist and I hold her and for this one full minute everything is exactly right. A mother and a daughter and a birthday morning. The warmth between us moves like something real.

  “You made it yellow,” she says into my side.

  “Your happiest color.”

  She squeezes tighter.

  This. Just this.

  Then she pulls back. “Is Annie coming?”

  I keep my arms around her one second longer.

  “I’m sure she’ll stop by,” I say.

  Sebastian comes downstairs. He looks at the balloons, the streamers, the cake on the counter.

  “It’s a bit much, isn’t it?” He’s already on his phone.

  I put the candles on the cake.

  Annie arrives mid-morning. She’s good at timing. The room is already warm when she walks in and she makes it warmer. Her gift is big, bright, wrapped in paper with a bow. Elise’s eyes go wide.

  I gave Elise her gift first. The toy she pointed at through a shop window in September. I wrote that down too. She’s happy with it. She hugs it. She’s a good kid.

  But Annie’s gift is louder. And loud things catch the eye.

  Sebastian takes pictures of Annie helping Elise with the wrapping. I sit at the table. My hands are around my tea. I am smiling.

  It’s her birthday. Keep smiling.

  I carry the cake out. Light the candles. For just a moment everyone is gathered in the right way and the room feels like it should. We sing. Elise closes her eyes.

  She makes her wish.

  The room goes quiet. Her lips move, just slightly. I’m standing closest, the way I’m always standing closest. I hear it.

  Please, I want Annie to be my mama instead.

  The match burns down to my fingers. I blow it out. I smile. I cut the cake.

  She’s five. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.

  I serve the slices. I keep the smile exactly where it is.

  She doesn’t know.