Your mother floated between guests in a sapphire dress, smiling the way women smile when they’ve spent decades smoothing over damage they never had the courage to stop. Your older sister, Rebecca, stood near the kitchen island with a glass of white wine and that permanently superior expression she had somehow worn since age twelve. Your father, Thomas Wren, moved through the crowd like a local king, accepting handshakes, shoulder claps, and admiration with the easy entitlement of a man who mistook being feared for being respected.
You came because of Lily.
That was the truth you hated most. Not because your daughter wanted to celebrate him. At three years old, Lily barely understood birthdays beyond cake, balloons, and the possibility of brightly wrapped surprises. You came because she had asked, in that sweet, serious way only small children can ask, whether Grandpa would be happy to see her in the yellow dress with the tiny embroidered daisies. And because you had spent your whole adult life trying to believe distance, maturity, and boundaries had turned your father into a man who was harsh but manageable instead of what he had once been.
You wanted to be wrong about him.
Or maybe you wanted your daughter to have at least one grandparent memory that wasn’t poisoned before it formed.
Your husband, Ben, couldn’t make it. His flight from Denver had been delayed by storms, and he was supposed to land after nine and drive straight over if the party was still going. You told him not to rush. It was only dinner, you said. Just cake and family. Nothing dramatic.
