Her eyes drop to the floor.
“I just didn’t know where to go. And now it's too late.”
“It's not too late, Mum. If you want to leave him…”
???
She pretends she hasn’t heard me and wanders off to the kitchen.
Soon I hear a clattering of plates and forks.
“It’s your special day,” she calls over her shoulder. “Made you a cake.”
But how did she…?
“Didn't think you'd be here to share it with me though, did I? Oh wait... can't forget the sprinkles. You loved these sprinkles when you were little. Used to tip them in your mouth straight from the container.”
I help her carry the plates into the living room.
We perch them on the coffee table, next to a pile of junk mail and knitting needles.
The clutter is so overstimulating, but I’m doing my best to ignore it.
Because her love, and my love for her, are more important.
Simple. Small. Homemade.
A round sponge with chocolate frosting.
A scattering of cocoa sprinkles across the top.
I’ve seen some damn fancy cakes as an event planner, worth hundreds of dollars.
But this is the most beautiful one I’ve ever laid eyes on.
The most meaningful.
“Just a packet mix from the roadhouse,” she says. And I don't have a candle.”
She never has a candle.
We have a tradition though.
“You can still make a wish. Here, blow on my finger."
I used to do this when I was young.
Always the same ‘finger wish’. Every year.
I’d wish that me and mum could live at the beach.
One time, I gave up on that dream and wished that I could hold the galaxy in my arms.
Looking down at Amos’s drawing on my wrist, that one kind of came true.
Because when I hold him, yeah… it does feel like an armful of stars.
But this time as I blow, my wish is for Ma.
