I placed the cake down gently. The silver box suddenly felt heavier, as though it carried not pearls, but decades of love, effort, and quiet sacrifice.
About fifteen minutes later, Sofia walked in. She looked flawless—perfect hair, manicured nails, makeup like something out of a magazine. All of it, in one way or another, traced back to the beauty clinic I had financed years ago with a loan against my apartment.
“So,” she said casually while opening a bottle of sparkling water, “are you just dropping that off, or are you planning to stay?”
Her tone pierced me.
“I thought maybe we could spend some time together. It’s been nearly two months.”
“I already have plans with Ryan,” she replied flatly. “We’re having dinner alone.”
Ryan—her third husband—was always polished, always talking about big investments, yet somehow every “urgent situation” ended with me paying for it. Just three weeks earlier, I had given sixty thousand pesos for one of his so-called emergency imports.
“I see,” I said quietly. “Maybe lunch tomorrow?”
She set the bottle down harder than necessary.
“Mom, we need to talk.”
I sat, bracing myself.