I had no idea that by the end of that same day, I would be crying for a completely different reason.
The doorbell rang, and Aunt Marta came in with a casserole dish in her arms.
She kissed my cheek and said, “You look tired and beautiful at the same time.”
I laughed softly. “That has basically been my personality for the last thirteen years.”
Soon, the house filled with relatives, warm voices, and the smell of food.
Mason wore a navy blazer. Noah kept tugging at his collar like it was choking him.
“Stop fussing with it,” I said, smoothing his shirt.
“Aunt, I’m eighteen now,” Noah said, stepping back. “You don’t have to do that anymore.”
His tone felt strange, but I ignored it.
I told myself new adults always sounded awkward when trying to act grown.
During dinner, Mason raised his glass.
“We just want to thank everyone for coming,” he said. “Especially the woman who raised us.”
Everyone softened.
My eyes filled with tears.
I thought it was gratitude.
I thought they were about to give me a hug, a speech, maybe a small gift.
But after the last guest left, everything changed.
