Page 76 of Bite Me

“I spend all this time picking out the color and the theme. I try to think about what she would like right now . . . What women her age would like. This year, I decided on florals. Revolutionary, I know.”

“Is your family coming in to help?”

“Oh, no. This is kinda just my thing.”

“So you celebrate alone every year?”

She hesitates, picking her words more carefully. “I know that makes my family sound terrible, but I don’t mind it. I think grief is different for everyone. For me, celebrating her birthday feels like celebrating her legacy and the fact that she was here once and made her mark on the world. I put on her favorite music and just get lost in this feeling. For my family, I think celebrating her birthday makes them really sad. As if it’s a reminder of another year passing without her.”

“I can imagine it’s complicated.”

Emma must have pleasant memories of her mother. Our situations hardly feel the same. I can’t honor my mother’s legacy, because I barely remember who she was. I can’t even remember if she was a good person. But I do remember one good memory: a sunlit picnic with just me, her, and finger sandwiches of cucumber and cream cheese.

“It is . . . You know, Olivia just shut down when Mom died. Full wall. She stopped eating dinner with us, wouldn’t talk. My dad fell apart and locked himself in his room and couldn’t say her name. And Eva . . . She just checked out and went numb. She carried on as if nothing was wrong. None of it bothered me. I think we all cope how we can. I just try to keep us together. I think Mom thought that was the most important thing. We’d have these family dinners, and we were always together. So, on the day of her death, I try to cook for them all. No cake, though, so it doesn’t feel celebratory.”

“Grief is complicated.” I nod, turning before she can reply. “I was about to head out. I can turn on the music if you want.”

“Oh . . . You don’t have to. I can do it.”

I don’t like the thought of her in the kitchen alone. She’s used to doing this by herself, but one of the many things I’ve learned about her is that she hates being alone.

I motion to the cake. “What’s your game plan?”

“Roses, I think . . . White. She loves those. A blue base.”

“Can I watch you?”

Her eyes dart to me, and I’m sure she’ll say no when the corner of her mouth tugs up.

“I don’t mind.”

I watch her apply the crumb coat and help her with the music by hooking up her playlist to the speaker. Once the cake is cooled enough, she frosts it in a cornflower-blue icing and then switches to white for the roses.

“Am I making you nervous now?” I ask.

“Oddly . . . No.” She smiles. “I kinda like the company.”

“Can I taste?” I motion to the frosting on her spatula.

“This is the icing you called too sweet, remember?”

“I was stressed. Let me give it a fresh taste.”

I reach for her hand, and she lets me take it, bringing the spatula closer. There’s a bit of icing on her finger that looks extra tasty, so I lick it.

She glares at me with pink cheeks.

“Yeah, I was wrong. This is perfect.”

There’s a spark in her eyes as she continues decorating. She pauses every few seconds to map out her rose placement.

“May I help? I’ve done about five thousand of these. I wish I were joking,” I say after watching her pipe a few.

“Yeah, sure.” She bites her lip as if she’s trying not to smile as I take the piping bag and finish the small, white roses covering the cake.

“I’m going to use green to add little vines afterward. Would you . . . want to try a piece with me? I usually eat a piece for her.”

“An Emma Osborne special? Can’t pass that up.”