Her cousins were there.
Even the family dog wore a ribbon around its neck.
Martha looked back at David.
“I see.”
David rubbed the back of his neck.
“Mom…”
“It’s all right.”
She forced a smile.
“I understand.”
But she did not.
Not really.
Because twenty minutes earlier, she had driven through those gates thinking she was still part of her son’s life.
Now she stood on the patio realizing she was an interruption.
One of the photographers whispered something to an assistant.
Sarah noticed.
Her face hardened.
“Martha, could you please move? You’re in the background of the shot.”
Martha stepped aside.
“Of course.”
She placed the cake on the edge of the stone table.
David looked uncomfortable.
“I’ll call you tonight.”
Martha nodded.
“Sure.”
She opened the cake box.
David glanced down.
For half a second, Martha saw the boy he used to be.
His expression softened.
“You made chocolate raspberry.”
“Your favorite.”
David almost smiled.
Then Sarah saw it.
“What is that?”
Martha looked at her.
“David’s birthday cake.”
Sarah stared at the simple homemade cake beside the catered desserts waiting on another table.
“This cannot be in the photos.”
Martha frowned.
“It doesn’t have to be.”
Sarah reached for the lid.
“We already have a custom cake coming from Le Jardin.”
David sighed.
“Sarah.”
“No, David. The entire campaign has been designed around a specific look.”
Martha carefully pulled the box closer.
“This isn’t for the campaign.”
Sarah laughed.
“Clearly.”
Several people became silent.
Martha felt heat rise in her face.
She hated public conflict.
Always had.
She reached for the cake.
“I’ll take it home.”
That should have ended everything.
It would have.
If Sarah had allowed it.
Instead, she said loudly:
“You know, this is exactly the problem.”
Martha stopped.
Sarah crossed her arms.
“You always arrive without asking.”
“Sarah…”
“You bring things nobody requested.”
Martha stared at her.
“I brought my son a cake.”
“And now everyone has to stop because you need a moment.”
“I never asked anyone to stop.”
“You don’t have to.”
Sarah glanced around.
“You walk in with the sad mother routine and suddenly everything becomes about you.”
Martha’s mouth opened.
No words came.
David finally stepped forward.
“Sarah, enough.”
But his tone was weak.
Too weak.
Sarah looked at him.
“What?”
“She didn’t do anything.”
“Then tell her to leave.”
Martha looked at David.
That was the moment that mattered.
Not Sarah’s anger.
Not the photographers.
Not the cake.
Her son.
He could have ended it.
One sentence.
That’s my mother. She stays.
Instead, David looked away.
“Mom…”
Martha’s heart dropped.
“Maybe we can do this another day.”
