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The thought of the Daughters being happy shifted something deep inside me. I drank while she talked, running over the entire event out loud from the frenzy of the arrival to the food and music then seating. By the time my cup was empty she sat back, sighed and lifted her gaze to me.

“You’re easy to talk to, you know that?” She said.

I gave a shrug.

Vivienne yawned—wide, sudden, exhaustion breaking through the mask she wore.

“You need to sleep.” I rose, taking the cup. “Tomorrow is going to be big enough for everyone, especially you.”

I headed for the door.

“You know you’re in this too, right?”

Her words stopped me cold. A wince came and a deep flare cut through the middle of my chest.

“You talk in a way that removes yourself, as though you think this isn’t as much for you as it is for the rest of them.”

I swallowed hard as my right hand trembled. “Let’s be honest here, Vivienne. I’m not meant for what they could have.” My voice went quieter. “It’s okay. I only want for them to be happy.”

“You deserve happiness too.”

Her words didn’t move. They stayed. Heavy. Too real.

Just for a second—just a second—something inside me shifted. Soft. Dangerous. Like it wanted to believe her. Like it wanted to reach for something I knew I couldn’t keep.

No.

Not for me.

My throat thickened. My thumb twitched. It took all my strength not to turn to her. “I am happy. Just like this.”

I closed the study door, moving faster than my body could handle, crossing the space to the dresser against the wall. I forced my breath to slow. Pulled everything in. Nothing else mattered now. Only this. Their faces. Their names. My fingers fumbled for the matches, my good hand steady, the other trembling as it cramped around the box.

I struck it.

The flame caught sharp.

Bright.

The smell hit me first—pungent, thick—filling my lungs as I drew in a breath that went deep. I held it there. Watched it burn. Just for a second longer than I should have. Then I lowered it.

“I remember you, Andrea,” I whispered.

The flame touched the wick.

She was first.

Always the first.

The way she used to laugh—soft. Like she didn’t want anyone to hear it. Her eyes wide. Smothering her mouth with her hand.

The candle caught.

Light flickered.

I moved to the next.

And the next.