At two-thirty I checked my phone. No messages. I told Lily they were probably just stuck in traffic. She accepted this and ran back to the game Marcus had organized, but I watched her look at the door again between rounds, her smile dimming slightly each time it did not open.
By three o’clock we had cut the cake. The kids were sticky with frosting and riding the sugar high that would become their parents’ problem within the hour. Presents had been opened and thanked for with the politeness we had worked hard to teach. The apartment was warm and loud and everything a birthday party should be, except that Lily kept looking at the door.
I tried my mother’s phone. Four rings, voicemail. I tried my father. Same.
By three-thirty the other families were collecting their children and saying their goodbyes. Emma’s mother complimented the cake. Sofia’s father said Lily seemed like a wonderful kid. They filed out one by one until it was only the three of us, sitting in a room full of deflated balloons and crumpled wrapping paper and the particular quiet that follows a party that has ended.
Lily sat on the couch in her purple dress, her patent leather shoes not quite reaching the floor. Her eyes were red and she was working very hard not to let them get redder.
