Thirty-two relatives filled every chair.
The afternoon passed exactly the way every family gathering did. People ate. Kids ran through the yard. Richard worked the grill while Brooke floated from table to table collecting compliments like birthday cards.
Then someone clinked a fork against a glass. “Presents!”
Brooke laughed. “Oh, you guys didn’t have to.”
She opened candles. A sweater. Gift cards. A cookbook she’d already owned. Everyone laughed.
Then she reached for my black wooden box and untied the ribbon. Lifted the lid.
The smile disappeared.
“Presents!”
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On top sat a handwritten card. Happy Birthday, Brooke. I made the potato salad.
Beneath it rested the framed hotel photo. The gray sweatshirt. The bathroom mirror. Can’t wait for Friday.
Brooke looked at me. Then at the photo. Then back at me.
Under the frame lay the folder. Brooke opened it with trembling hands.
