“I got angry.”
“I said something worse.”
“What?”
“I told her she would understand when Ethan grew up and stopped calling.”
Evelyn’s voice lowered.
“I said that to my own daughter.”
“And two years later, I was the one whose calls he couldn't answer.”
Silence.
The store suddenly seemed too bright.
Jenna asked:
“Did you apologize?”
“At first?”
“No.”
“That was another mistake.”
“I sent long messages explaining myself.”
“Which are not apologies.”
“I said things like, ‘I’m sorry you felt undermined.’”
“Which means nothing.”
“I told Claire I had only acted out of love.”
“As if love made the behavior disappear.”
“She blocked me after the fourth message.”
“What did you do then?”
“Got angry again.”
“I told relatives Claire was keeping my grandson from me.”
“Some of them confronted her.”
“I made everything worse.”
Jenna whispered:
“Oh.”
Evelyn nodded.
“Eventually my sister told me something I needed to hear.”
“She said, ‘Evelyn, every time Claire describes something you did, you explain why you had the right to do it.’”
“That sat with me.”
“For months.”
Evelyn looked toward the cake.
“I started therapy.”
“Not because I thought I had some terrible diagnosis.”
“Because I realized I did not know how to hear no from my daughter without treating it like rejection.”
“That was the problem.”
“Claire became an adult, and I kept treating disagreement like disobedience.”
Jenna looked down at her own hands.
Her earlier words came back.
At your age, you should know better.
Playing the helpless old woman.
Selfish.
She had known Evelyn for approximately ninety seconds.
And had constructed an entire personality.
Jenna said:
“I decided what kind of person you were before I knew one thing about you.”
Evelyn looked at her.
“I’m not asking you to think I’m perfect.”
“I’m not.”
“I hurt my daughter.”
“She had reasons to stop trusting me.”
“But I wish you had asked before deciding I was awful.”
Jenna swallowed.
“Yeah.”
“I should have.”
Evelyn looked toward the clock again.
2:24.
Marcus noticed.
“You still need batteries?”
“Yes.”
“Candles?”
“Yes.”
“Card?”
“I have the card.”
“Anything else?”
“Wrapping paper.”
Jenna reached toward the cake.
Then stopped herself.
“May I put it back in your cart?”
That mattered.
The question.
Not assuming.
Evelyn looked at her.
“Yes.”
“Please.”
Jenna lifted the cake carefully.
Placed it in the cart.
Ribbon intact.
Card still tucked beneath.
“That’s all I wanted from the beginning.”
Evelyn said.
“I know.”
Jenna stepped back.
Then asked:
“Would you let me help you get everything to checkout?”
“I don't want to assume again.”
For the first time, Evelyn smiled.
Small.
Tired.
But real.
“You can walk with me.”
“I’ll push my own cart.”
“But I won't turn down the company.”
Marcus pointed toward the front.
“Register four just opened.”
“Straight past produce.”
“Shortest line.”
Evelyn checked her watch.
“Thank you.”
Jenna abandoned her own almost-empty cart near customer service after telling Marcus she would return for it.
Then she walked beside Evelyn.
Not ahead.
Not steering.
Beside.
They found candles first.
Nine blue candles.
Evelyn picked up a package.
Put it down.
Picked up number-shaped candles instead.
“What?”
Jenna asked.