Alice was kneeling in a sea of wrapping paper. Milo was showing her how one of her new toys worked.
“See what?”
My mother gave me a look.
“Olivia.”
And suddenly I did.
Three years, all at once.
The first birthday Alice and Milo had shared, Cecilia and her husband, Jared, had brought something small for the baby and one present labeled “for you two.” A board game.
The next year, there had been cookies for both of them and another little package just for Alice.
Milo had been seven, then eight.
He didn’t count.
Neither did I, apparently.
I’d told myself Alice was younger. Babies were easier to shop for. Grandparents got excited about little kids.
I had explained away every difference because the alternative felt uglier.
My mother glanced toward the patio doors.
Ethan was outside at the grill with his father.
“Let me ask her,” Mom said. “Quietly. It’s Alice’s birthday. Nobody needs a scene.”
