Then we left.
***
In the car, Amelia held the candle across her knees.
I glanced at it.
“Want me to throw that thing away?”
“No, Mom.”
“Okay.”
She ran one finger along the smooth white wax.
“It’s mine.”
“Want me to throw that thing away?”
That answer made more sense than anything the adults had said all day.
***
When we got home, her younger sisters attacked her with questions.
“Was the cake huge?”
“Did Dad cry?”
“Was Aunt Lina wearing a crown?”
Amelia finally laughed.
“No crown, idiot.”
“Did Dad cry?”
Within 10 minutes she was back in pajamas, stealing fries from her sister’s plate while she yelled that Amelia had her own.
The candle sat on the kitchen table.
I picked it up.
“Where do you want this?”
Amelia thought for a moment, then pointed toward the windowsill.
“There.”
“Where do you want this?”
I set it down.
Not lit.
Not thrown away.
Just where she had chosen.
My phone buzzed.
Ryan.
I expected anger.
Instead, his message said:
“Tell Amelia I’m sorry I made her feel like she had to prove she was okay.”
Then another arrived.
“Tell Amelia I’m sorry I made her feel like she had to prove she was okay.”
