I smoothed down my turquoise dress—the only new piece of clothing I had bought in years—and held a small silver box close to my chest. Inside was a pearl necklace that had belonged to my mother. Three generations of women, I thought. My grandmother, my mother, me… and now Sofia.
With a hopeful smile, I rang the doorbell.
The moment she opened the door, that hope shattered.
She didn’t smile. She didn’t hug me. She barely even glanced up from her phone.
“Oh… it’s you?” she muttered, stepping aside like I was a courier delivering a package.
My throat tightened.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart. I brought your favorite cake… and a little gift.”
She exhaled sharply, clearly annoyed.
“Just leave it in the kitchen. I’m on a call.”
I walked in slowly. The kitchen gleamed with Italian marble countertops—something I had also paid for during their renovation. Through the glass doors, I saw my grandsons, Lucas and Noah, laughing as they splashed in the pool with their instructor. They didn’t notice me. Or maybe they did, but had already learned not to interrupt “important moments.”