At My Daughter’s Sweet 16, My Sister Hijacked the Party With a Bigger Cake—So I Took Back $40,000 and Everything Changed
The song started wrong.
Not off-key. Not too fast. Wrong.
We were in my parents’ living room in Tacoma, Washington, the same room where every birthday, graduation, and awkward holiday photo had unfolded for the last twenty years. Balloons were taped to the mantle, the silver “16” tilting slightly because the wall was textured and nothing ever stuck the way it should. I had ordered a simple white cake with teal piping, “Happy Sweet 16, Leia,” written in the careful cursive my daughter practiced for weeks in the margins of her math notebook. It sat centered on the dining table like it belonged there. Because it did.
Brooke was late, of course. She was always late, sweeping in after everyone else had done the setup, after the barbecue had already been picked over, after Evan had wrestled the Bluetooth speaker into submission. Leia stood in the soft glow of fairy lights we’d strung along the curtain rods, cheeks pink, hands clasped around a paper plate like it was something to steady herself with. She looked beautiful and nervous and sixteen in that quiet way she has, like she doesn’t want to take up more space than she’s allowed.
Then the front door burst open.
Brooke entered like a gust of perfume and commentary, her boyfriend behind her carrying a bakery box so massive it needed two hands and a hip for balance. She announced it before she even made it fully into the room.
“It’s closer to Maya’s birthday anyway.”
She laughed, that high, brittle laugh that dares anyone not to laugh along.
Maya bounced in behind her in a glittery top, already climbing onto a chair as if she’d rehearsed the angle. Brooke flipped the lid open with a flourish. Inside was a two-tiered fondant tower, gold flecks catching the light, a giant metallic “15” stabbed into the top like a flag claiming territory.
The room made that noise people make when something is expensive. A low, appreciative “whooo.” Someone said, “Wow, now that’s a cake.” My mother was already tearing plastic off extra plates like this had been the plan all along.
“Okay!” Brooke clapped. “Let’s sing while it’s fresh.”
She started bright and loud.
“Happy birthday to you—”
And then she said, “Dear Maya.”
Like it had always been Maya’s party.
A few cousins followed automatically because people follow whoever sounds confident. My dad chuckled and said, “Double celebration. Efficient.”
I watched Leia’s face change.
It was small. A flicker. She blinked fast and gave that polite little smile adults love, the one that says I won’t make this difficult. She was still holding the lighter, ready to light her own candles. No one reached for them.
Maya leaned forward for Aunt Donna’s phone, chin tilted just so. The gold “15” gleamed.
I tasted metal.
Evan’s hand pressed gently against the small of my back, steady, warm. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The song ended in cheers. Brooke beamed like she’d donated something generous instead of taken something that wasn’t hers.
Leia set the lighter down.
She mouthed, “It’s okay,” at me.
Then she slipped down the hallway toward the guest room where we’d stashed her coat, shoulders creeping up toward her ears as if she could fold herself small enough to disappear.
I didn’t explode.
I stood there, staring at the teal icing on the cake we’d chosen together. The L in her name curled like a ribbon. My hands shook, but my voice stayed quiet.
I’m Miranda. I’m 39. I’m an accountant for a small construction firm. I live by numbers and documentation and the belief that if you keep things balanced long enough, they will stay that way. I am the oldest daughter. Brooke is two years younger. Our parents, Ken and Diane, raised us on “family helps family.” I took that literally.
Since 2018, I’d sent my mom $150 every Friday for utilities. “Just until our check comes.” It never stopped. That’s $7,800 a year. I paid their property taxes twice. Added them to my cell plan. Fronted the Disney trip deposit when Brooke overpromised and underfunded. Co-signed braces for Maya because I had “the good credit.” $9,400 over eighteen months. I even bought the fancy toothpaste.
And then there was the lake house.
My dad’s pride, out by American Lake. The siding was failing. He had a plan to turn it into an Airbnb. “An investment,” he called it, the first time in years money hadn’t felt like a favor but a partnership. We opened a joint account labeled “Ken and Miranda Siding Fund.” He put in a token amount. I moved $40,000 from my savings last fall. He texted cedar samples and called me partner.
Meanwhile, Leia was always the afterthought.
The forgotten Christmas stocking after I remarried. “Oops, miscounted.” The Thanksgiving kids’ table in the laundry area while Maya sat next to Grandpa. The zoo passes handed to every grandchild except mine. “You’re practically grown. Go with friends.”
I told myself it wasn’t intentional.
I told myself not to make a scene.
In February, Brooke asked me to co-sign on a new SUV. I said no. Calmly. The temperature dropped. Suddenly I was controlling. Suddenly Evan was influencing me. Suddenly I was “spreadsheet girl holding the purse strings.”
And now this.
It is never just about a cake.
It is about the slow accumulation of small cuts you tolerate because you love the hands holding the knife.
After the wrong song ended and Leia disappeared down the hall, Brooke was still basking in attention.
“We can all share,” she said magnanimously. “We can throw Leia’s name on a plate.”
My dad laughed. “Just slice it.”
Something inside me clicked.
I walked into the kitchen. The Bluetooth speaker hummed faintly on the counter. I set my phone down and opened my banking app. Face ID failed because my cheek was sticky. I wiped it with a dish towel and tried again.
Accounts.
Checking. Savings.
Ken and Miranda Siding Fund: $40,217.30.
My thumb hovered.
Transfer.
From: Ken and Miranda Siding Fund.
To: Savings.
Amount: $40,000.00.
A code pinged to my phone. I typed the six numbers. Confirm.
A small circle spun. Then a green check.
Transfer complete.
The balance in the joint account dropped to $217.30.
I took a screenshot.
My heart stopped racing. It settled. Heavy and calm.
I walked back into the living room. Everyone was frozen in that awkward, waiting posture people adopt when tension enters the air.
“Brooke,” I said quietly. “Take this and leave.”
The room went brittle.
She blinked. “What?”
“Take this cake and leave.”
“Miranda, it’s just cake. Relax.”
“My daughter is not down here because people just sang to someone else at her party. Take this cake and leave.”
My father’s voice cut in. “Don’t be dramatic.”
I looked at him. Grease-stained apron. Polo shirt. Every Saturday of my childhood in one frame.
“Check your bank account,” I said.
His eyes flicked despite himself. He pulled out his phone. Looked down.
“I just transferred back the $40,000 I loaned you.”
The corners of his mouth hardened.
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
Brooke made a sharp sound. “Are you seriously making money the focus at a child’s party?”
“I am making my child the focus,” I said. “And I’m not funding a family my kid doesn’t belong in.”
The bakery box snapped shut. Evan stepped forward calmly, lifting it and handing it to Brooke’s boyfriend as if we were discussing leftovers.
“We had an agreement,” my dad said tightly.
“We had decency,” I replied. “You just showed me what it’s worth.”
Brooke stormed out. Maya wailed. A few relatives trailed behind them like loyal satellites.
The door shut.
The room felt larger.
“There’s a lighter on the table,” I said to Evan. “Let’s sing to Leia.”
I walked down the hallway and knocked gently.
“Honey.”
“Yeah.” Her voice was small.
“Come back. Your cake’s ready.”
She opened the door with damp lashes and that brave nod she uses when she’s trying not to break. She stepped back into the living room where the remaining guests—Evan, Aunt June, a few neighbors—clapped softly.
We sang her name.
When she blew out the candles, her smile hit me like sunlight.
That night, my phone lit up.
From Mom: I can’t believe you would humiliate your father over a cake.
From Dad: Put the 40k back now. Contractor Monday.
From Brooke: Hope your money keeps you warm. You ruined two birthdays.
From Aunt June: Proud of you.
I replied to exactly three messages.
To Dad: I am out of the project. Spend your money, not mine. Screenshot attached.
He called twice. I let it ring.
Sunday, my parents showed up at our door with Tupperware like a peace offering. Evan answered in his teacher voice.
“Now isn’t a good time.”
I stepped beside him.
“I’m able to talk,” I said. “I’m choosing not to.”
“When you can apologize to Leia, we can talk.”
They left the stew on the porch.
Monday morning, Cascade Exteriors called to confirm payment. I told them I was no longer part of the project.
At lunch, I dropped sneakers off at Leia’s school. Under the fluorescent lights she looked younger.
“I didn’t ruin it, right?” she asked softly.
“You were perfect,” I said.
That Saturday, we did a quiet do-over in our backyard. Pizza boxes. Fairy lights. Two empty chairs we didn’t move.
Leia stood behind her teal cake.
We sang her name.
She laughed mid-song, real and bright.
Later that night, my dad texted.
It’s like this.
I stared at it for a long time.
Then I sent four words.
It’s like Leia matters.
Upstairs, her door was cracked open. She slept with the birthday card she’d made tucked under her pillow.
It wasn’t revenge.
It was a correction.
CHECK IT OUT>>FULL STORY👇👇
At My Daughter’s Sweet 16, My Sister Showed Up With a Bigger Cake
Part 1
The song started wrong.
Not off-key wrong—wrong like stepping into the wrong house and realizing nobody notices. We were in my parents’ living room with balloons taped to the mantle and a silver 16 leaning a little crooked because the wall was textured. Fairy lights glowed along the window frame. People laughed over barbecue plates and paper cups of soda.
My daughter Leia stood near the coffee table, pink cheeks, hands clasped around a paper plate like it was armor. She had the lighter in one hand, ready to light the candles on the cake she and I had picked out together.
Simple white frosting. Teal piping. Happy Sweet 16, Leia in her careful cursive. The L looped like a ribbon.
Brooke was late as usual.
I should have known that was the warning, because in our family Brooke’s lateness always meant she was arriving with a plan. Brooke didn’t show up late because she was disorganized. She showed up late because she wanted the room to adjust around her entrance.
The front door opened and cold air slipped in. Brooke swept in with a bakery box so large her boyfriend had to help carry it.
She didn’t ease into the room.
She announced herself from the doorway, voice bright and casual like she was delivering good news.
“It’s closer to Maya’s birthday anyway!”
She laughed like everyone was supposed to laugh with her.
Maya, her daughter, bounced in behind her wearing a glittery top and the kind of confidence that comes from being told your whole life you’re the center of every room. She climbed onto a chair before anyone told her not to.
Brooke flipped open the box.
A two-tier fondant thing in gold fleck, heavy and perfect-looking, with a giant 15 stuck right on top.
The room made that sound people make when something is expensive. The impressed little “ooh” that’s supposed to be polite but always feels like a verdict.
Someone shouted, “Wow. Now that’s a cake.”
My mother clapped and immediately started tearing plastic off a stack of extra plates like this was normal, like Brooke hadn’t just dropped a second birthday into my daughter’s birthday party and expected us all to rearrange our attention around it.
Brooke clapped her hands. “Okay! Let’s just sing now while it’s fresh.”
She started the song loud and confident, like she owned the moment.
“Happy birthday to you…”
My stomach tightened.
Leia’s lighter hovered near her candles, but nobody moved toward her cake. Nobody said, Wait, isn’t this Leia’s party?
And then Brooke hit the line.
“Happy birthday dear… Maya.”
She said it like that had been the plan all along.
A few cousins followed her because people follow the loudest voice. My dad chuckled like it was clever and said, “Double celebration. Efficient.”
Efficient.
That word would have been funny if it hadn’t made something hot and furious bloom behind my ribs.
I watched Leia’s face flicker. She blinked fast and gave that small, brave smile kids give when they’re trying to be good. The smile that says, Don’t make anyone uncomfortable. Don’t be a problem. Don’t cry.
Maya leaned forward and posed for a phone camera like she’d just been crowned. Aunt Donna’s flash went off.
Leia lowered the lighter slowly and set it down like it was suddenly too heavy.
I felt Evan’s hand press gently into the small of my back. Steady. Present. My husband never tried to control me. He just offered stability, like a railing when you weren’t sure your legs would hold.
The song ended.
People whooped. Brooke looked thrilled. Like she’d pulled off a clever trick and the room had rewarded her.
Leia mouthed “It’s okay” at me.
Then she slipped down the hallway, quiet as a shadow, and I heard the guest room door click.
I didn’t explode.
I didn’t scream.
I stood there tasting metal in my mouth, staring at the teal writing on Leia’s cake like it was proof of a life nobody in this room was willing to respect unless I forced them to.
My name is Miranda. I was thirty-nine, living in Tacoma, Washington. I’m an accountant for a small construction firm. I’m the kind of person who thinks in numbers and plans because numbers don’t pretend to love you and then forget you exist.
I’m married to Evan, who teaches middle school science and has the kind of patience that still surprises me.
We have one kid. Leia. Sixteen that day. Quiet, funny, polite in a way adults always compliment, like her ability to shrink herself is a virtue.
I’m the oldest. Brooke is two years younger.
Our parents, Ken and Diane, lived twenty minutes away. We grew up on family helps family, and I took that literally. Too literally.
Since 2018, I’d sent my mom $150 every Friday for “utilities” because her messages always came with just until our check comes and it never stopped. I paid their property taxes twice. I put them on my cell plan “temporarily.” I fronted the Disney trip when Brooke told the kids before she could actually afford it.
And when Maya needed braces, Brooke needed “a little push,” and my mother said, “Think of it like being her godmother,” I signed the orthodontist plan in my name because I had the good credit.
$9,400 over eighteen months.
I bought the fancy toothpaste too.
And because I believed in plans, I believed in my father’s lakehouse plan.
He owned a small house by American Lake that had been his pride since I was a kid. The siding was failing, and he wanted to turn it into an Airbnb. The first time in years he asked for money like it was an investment, not a favor.
We opened a joint account at his bank labeled Ken and Miranda Siding Fund.
He put in $200.
I moved $40,000 of my savings there last fall, earmarked for Cascade Exteriors.
He texted me pictures of cedar samples and called me partner.
Meanwhile, Leia was always the afterthought.
They forgot to hang a stocking for her one Christmas after I remarried. “Oops, we miscounted,” Mom said, like four grandchildren was advanced math. At Thanksgiving, Leia sat at the kids’ table in the laundry area because “the big table is full,” while Maya got to sit next to Grandpa and salt her food like a waterfall and everyone laughed like it was adorable.
At the zoo, Dad bought season passes for the grandkids and handed them to Maya and my brother’s boys. When Leia held out her hand, Dad laughed. “You’re practically grown.”
Leia slid her hand back into her hoodie pocket and said nothing.
I told myself not to make a scene.
They always had a reason.
“Leia’s so independent.”
“Maya’s little. She needs the attention.”
“You know your father.”
“We didn’t think you’d mind.”
It is never just about a cake.
It’s about a slow collection of small cuts you decide you can tolerate because you love who’s holding the knife.
So when Brooke marched into Leia’s Sweet 16 with a bigger cake and a wrong song and everyone followed her like she was the sun, that voice in my gut wasn’t small anymore.
It was the only thing I could hear.
Part 2
After Leia disappeared down the hall, Brooke stood in the center of the room, basking.
“We can all share,” she said, smiling big. “We can throw Leia’s name on a plate.”
My dad laughed. “Sure, just slice it.”
Like Leia’s birthday was a garnish.
I walked to the table. Not fast. Not dramatic. Slow enough that my heels didn’t click too loudly on the hardwood. Slow enough that everyone could see I was moving with purpose.
I slid Leia’s teal cake back into the center where it belonged. I picked up the big knife someone had already stuck into Brooke’s two-tier cake, as if her cake had automatically become the main event.
I set the knife down.
Then I lifted the bakery box lid back over the giant 15.
“Brooke,” I said quietly, “take this and leave.”
The air in the room changed. It got brittle, like a thin layer of ice formed over everyone’s reactions.
Brooke blinked. “What?”
“Take this cake and leave,” I repeated.
She laughed that high laugh she used when she wanted to pretend she wasn’t furious. “Miranda, it’s just cake. Relax. We’re celebrating our girls.”
“My daughter is not down here,” I said, “because people just sang to someone else at her party.”
Brooke’s smile slipped.
My father’s voice cut in, heavy and annoyed. “Don’t be dramatic.”
He always said it like a joke and a warning.
“It’s a second cake,” he continued. “We’re fine. Go get your kid down here. We’ll sing again.”
I looked at him and felt something click into place, like a lock finally turning. My father could watch Leia get pushed aside, could watch Brooke hijack the moment, and still tell me I was the problem for reacting.
That wasn’t cluelessness.
That was preference.
I walked into the kitchen where the Bluetooth speaker buzzed softly. I set my phone on the counter and opened my banking app.
Face ID failed because my cheek was sticky with something—barbecue sauce, maybe. I wiped my face with a dish towel and tried again.
The app opened.
Checking. Savings. And the joint account: Ken and Miranda Siding Fund.
I could recite the numbers like prayers.
I tapped the joint account.
Balance: $40,217.30.
There was a pending withdrawal for Monday, scheduled to Cascade Exteriors.
My father had texted me that morning: Contractor Monday. Siding goes up. We’re finally rolling.
He’d used a thumbs-up emoji.
My thumb hovered over Transfer.
I didn’t shake. My heart had stopped trying to outrun what I already knew. It just sat there, waiting for my decision.
Transfer from Ken and Miranda Siding Fund to Savings.
Amount: $40,000.00.
The app asked for a code. A text pinged. I typed the six numbers in.
Confirm.
A circle spun.
Then: Transfer complete.
New balance: Ken and Miranda Siding Fund — $217.30.
Savings — $72,910.04.
I took a screenshot.
Then I walked back into the living room.
Everyone was still frozen in place like the scene had paused. Brooke with her arms crossed. Maya pouting. My mother clutching plates. My dad trying to look casual like this was a normal family moment and not a public betrayal of a child’s feelings.
“Check your bank account,” I said, not loud.
My dad’s eyes flicked, surprised despite himself. He reached for his phone like his body moved before his pride could stop it. He stared down.
The corners of his mouth hardened.
“You didn’t,” he said, even though he was looking right at it.
“I did,” I replied. “I just transferred back the forty thousand I loaned you.”
Brooke made an ugly sound. “Are you seriously making money the focus at a child’s party?”
“I’m making my child the focus,” I said evenly. “And I’m not funding a family my kid doesn’t belong in.”
My mother’s face went pale. “Miranda, don’t do this. Don’t embarrass your father.”
“We had decency,” I said, and my voice stayed calm. “And you just showed me what it’s worth.”
Brooke grabbed the bakery box handles. “Fine. We’re leaving because clearly you’re unstable.”
She yanked the lid closed so hard the top tier tilted. Evan stepped forward, took the box gently from her hands, and passed it to Brooke’s boyfriend like we were simply helping with leftovers.
“Careful,” Evan said mildly.
That mildness made Brooke angrier than yelling ever could.
She stomped toward the door. Maya wailed. Aunt Donna and a couple cousins trailed after them, loyal to the spectacle.
The door shut.
The room felt larger.
Aunt June—my mom’s sister, quiet, steady, the one who always brought salad and never joined in cruelty—set her purse down like she was settling in for a necessary fight.
“Ken,” she said to my father, tone firm. “Let the girl have her day. Sit down.”
My father looked like he wanted to argue, but even he couldn’t out-stare Aunt June.
Evan picked up the lighter from the table. “Let’s sing to Leia,” he said.
I walked to the hallway and tapped on the guest room door.
“Honey,” I said softly.
A pause. Then Leia’s voice, small. “Yeah?”
“Come back,” I said. “Your cake’s ready.”
The door opened a crack. Damp lashes. Brave face.
She took a breath like she was diving into water.
When she stepped back into the living room, the remaining people—Evan, Aunt June, my brother’s wife, a few neighbors—clapped and smiled like they meant it.
We sang Happy Birthday.
We said Leia’s name.
She stood up straighter with every syllable.
When she blew out the candles, her hair moved gently with the breath, and her smile hit me like warmth.
That was the moment I knew I’d done the right thing.
Not because I’d won.
Because my daughter was no longer alone in a room full of her own family.
Part 3
After everyone left, my phone lit up like a slot machine.
Mom: I can’t believe you would humiliate your father like that over a cake. We were going to sing for her too. You’ve always been so sensitive.
Dad: Put the 40k back now. You don’t break agreements. Contractor Monday.
Brooke: Hope your thief money keeps you warm. Maya cried all night. You ruined two birthdays.
Aunt June: Proud of you. We saw what we saw. Leia is lovely.
I replied to exactly three messages.
To Dad: I am out of the project. Spend your money, not mine.
I attached the transfer screenshot.
He called twice within a minute. I let it ring into voicemail.
His voicemail was a mix of exasperation and wounded pride. “This is ridiculous. You said you’d help. I’ve already told people. Cascade is booked. You can’t do this. You can’t do this to me.”
I stared at the ceiling and thought about how many times my father had used that phrase on me. You can’t do this. You can’t embarrass us. You can’t make a scene. You can’t disrupt the story.
To Mom: I won’t fund a family my kid isn’t part of.
She replied with a long paragraph about how families have ups and downs, how Brooke has always been a handful, how Evan never liked them, how I was being controlled. Evan was already asleep, snoring softly like a cat. I set my phone face down.
To Brooke: Do not use your daughter as a weapon. You owe Leia an apology.
Brooke sent twenty eye-roll emojis and a screenshot of a Facebook post: Some people steal from their elders. Pray for them.
The comments were a mess of cousins and old neighbors I hadn’t spoken to in years.
I turned off notifications.
On Sunday, my parents drove over and knocked.
Evan answered. He had his teacher voice on—polite, calm, immovable.
“Now isn’t a good time,” he said.
My dad tried to look past him. “She should be able to talk to her parents.”
I stepped into the entryway beside Evan. “I am able,” I said. “I’m also choosing not to.”
My mother held a Tupperware of stew like it was a peace offering.
“When you can apologize to Leia and to me,” I continued, “and when Brooke can keep her cake for her own party, we can talk.”
Mom shook her head, offended. “We’re not trying to make you choose.”
“You did,” I said. “You chose loud over kind for so long you didn’t notice.”
They left the stew on the step.
Evan put it in the fridge.
I didn’t touch it.
Monday morning, Cascade Exteriors called to confirm final payment.
I told them I was no longer part of the project.
The woman on the phone made a tight sound. “We’ll have to reschedule for your father then.”
“Okay,” I said, and for the first time it really hit: it wasn’t my emergency anymore.
That afternoon, I drove to Leia’s school to drop off the sneakers she forgot for gym. She came out under the harsh fluorescent lights and waved like she was little again.
“Hey, Mom.”
She took the shoes, then leaned into my side for a second—quick, like she didn’t want anyone to see.
“I didn’t ruin it, right?” she whispered.
My throat tightened. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
Her voice shook. “It was supposed to be… just for me.”
“It was,” I said firmly. “And we’re going to have our people over this weekend.”
“Your people,” she repeated quietly, and something like relief softened her face.
That night, I opened a new folder in my file drawer and labeled it Leia College.
I printed a blank budget. I made two calls. I didn’t tell the extended family. I didn’t post online. I didn’t fight in comment sections.
I just started building.
The guilt texts kept coming all week.
You let money ruin family.
Your father’s heart can’t take stress.
We raised you better than this.
I answered every guilt trip with the same sentence:
I won’t fund a family my kid isn’t part of.
It was boring. It was true. And it kept me from writing paragraphs that would only give them more handles to grab.
In the middle of it, two bright things happened.
Aunt June texted: Bringing my boys Saturday. They want to jam with Evan and his guitar.
And my brother’s wife—who almost never picked sides—sent: We’re with you. This has been ugly for a long time.
I stared at that message for a long time and felt something loosen.
Not because it fixed anything.
Because it meant I wasn’t crazy.
We did a do-over that Saturday.
No matching napkins. No fancy venue. I ordered pizza from the strip mall place with the grease-stained boxes. Evan made a pitcher of lemonade. We hung the fairy lights in our backyard where the air felt less crowded.
Two chairs at the patio table stayed empty.
Evan asked if we should move them.
“No,” I said. “Let them be.”
It felt honest, like acknowledging a ghost without inviting it in.
Aunt June came with her boys and potato salad that could start a religion. My brother’s wife brought brownies and her sons who buzzed around Leia like puppies. Three of Leia’s art club friends came with handmade cards that made my throat hurt in a good way. Our neighbor wandered over with soda and a dad joke.
Leia wore the silver dress again.
She stood behind her cake—simple, teal icing, her name where it belonged.
And this time, no one tried to put anyone else’s name on top of it.
We sang.
Someone harmonized badly.
Leia laughed right in the middle of it, that real laugh that shows her molars.
She cut the first slice herself and handed it to Aunt June like a ceremony.
I took a photo of Leia holding the plate, fairy lights reflected in her eyes.
This time I didn’t send it to any family group chat.
I printed it and stuck it on the fridge with a magnet shaped like a tomato.
After presents, Leia handed me a card she’d made: a sketch in pencil colored with her brush pens. Three stick figures under string lights. A small teal cake. Simple words: Thanks, Mom.
I put it on the fridge next to the photo and smoothed my hand over it like it was fragile.
By 10:00 p.m., the house was quiet. Frosting crusted on plates stacked in the sink. I rinsed the knife and set it on a towel.
My phone buzzed once.
A text from Dad: It’s like that now.
I stared at it for a long time.
Then I typed four words and sent them.
It’s like Leia matters.
I turned off the kitchen light.
Upstairs, Leia’s door was cracked open. I peeked in. She was asleep on top of the covers, her card tucked under her pillow like a secret she wanted close.
I didn’t feel triumphant.
I felt aligned.
It wasn’t revenge.
It was a correction.
