“You trained me.” She laughed. Claire came too, along with Margaret, Rebecca, Martin, several longtime employees, neighbors, cousins, and people Eleanor had known long enough that nobody performed closeness for photographs. There were no influencers.
No public posts. No luxury-brand collaborations. Just food, wine, children moving between tables, and music low enough for conversation. Before cake, Lucy tapped a spoon against her glass.
Everyone groaned because they assumed a teenage speech was coming. Instead Lucy said, “I have one rule before Grandma’s cake.” Eleanor narrowed her eyes. Lucy pointed around the patio.
“Nobody bumps the table.” The entire backyard erupted in laughter. Even Eleanor. Especially Eleanor.
Five years had finally made the memory light enough to touch without flinching. Harrison stood beside her while the candles were lit. There were only seven candles, one for each decade, because Margaret had declared seventy actual flames a municipal hazard. Eleanor watched the small points of light tremble in the breeze.
“Make a wish,” Lucy said. Eleanor looked around. At Harrison, whose life had become less glamorous and more solid. At Lucy, who had learned that adults could fail without requiring children to become judges.
At Margaret, who had always known when to comfort and when to irritate. At Martin and Rebecca, who had proven that professional loyalty sometimes means refusing to protect family from facts. She thought briefly of Sloan too. Not with anger.
Not with affection. Simply as part of the road that had brought them here. Then Eleanor blew out the candles. The cake stayed upright.