The mashed potatoes were fluffed, with little pools of butter melting like golden stars. And then, of course, the cake—small, round, with two candles: a 4 and a 7.

I didn’t even like cake anymore.

Miles lit the candles. The flames flickered, trying to dance me into a better mood.

“Go ahead,” he said with a small smile. But his eyes watched me too closely.

He was waiting for the cracks.

I said nothing. Just stared across the table at the silent chair.