Isabelle didn’t set an alarm.
She didn’t check the date on her phone.
She didn’t want to remember.
Because remembering would mean acknowledging that it was her birthday. And this year, she didn’t want it. Not the texts. Not the flowers. Not the small talk with Marcus over brunch reservations she didn’t want to attend.
She pulled her hair into a bun and tied her robe a little too tightly as she walked into the kitchen.
And then she stopped.
There was flour on the floor.
The unmistakable scent of sugar, vanilla, and burnt toast in the air.
And two very eager children beaming at her with frosting-smeared cheeks.
“Happy birthday, Mommy!” Amelia shouted, holding up a lopsided paper crown made of pink construction paper and glitter glue.
Elliott thrust forward a handmade card with croo
