Chapter 13
Emily’s eighth birthday took place at a pottery studio.
She refused cake.
I did not persuade her.
The studio offered cupcakes.
She said no.
We served strawberries, popcorn, and small sandwiches.
Her friends painted bowls.
No one sang until Emily requested it.
She did not.
At home that night, she asked:
“Do birthdays have to have cake?”
“No.”
“Then why does everyone act like they do?”
“Tradition.”
“Can traditions be bad?”
“Yes.”
“Was Daddy’s cake tradition bad?”
“No.”
“Then why does it make me sick?”
“Because Grandma connected it to something frightening.”
She looked toward the kitchen.
The trash can had been replaced after the investigation because seeing it made her freeze.
“Can good things become bad?”
“They can carry bad memories.”
“Can they become good again?”
“Sometimes. They do not have to.”
At nine, Emily chose cookies.
At ten, ice cream.
At eleven, she asked to bake a cake.
Just the two of us.
No party.
No phones.
She selected chocolate instead of strawberry.
“No unicorn,” she said.
“Agreed.”
We made a round cake with plain white frosting.
When one side collapsed, she laughed.
Then became quiet.
“Can I throw a piece away?”
“Yes.”
She cut a small slice.
Placed it gently in the trash.
“Why did you do that?” I asked.
“To see if I control it.”
“How does it feel?”
“Fine.”
She cut another slice and ate it.
May you like
The trash no longer decided whether she deserved celebration.
She did.
