And just like that, the conversation started up again, louder this time, brighter. Chloe sat beside me. She folded her napkin into neat little squares and stared at her plate, her lower lip trembling just slightly. I told myself to stay calm, to pick my battles, to let this one go.

But when I stood a few minutes later and said I was grabbing more napkins, no one looked up. The kitchen smelled like lemon cleaner and crushed hope. The trash can lid was half-open. I saw the frosting first—white smears against the black liner. Crushed paper cups. A drift of sprinkles like confetti at a funeral.

It took me a second to breathe. Another to realize I wasn’t alone.