The sound I remember most from my daughter’s eighth birthday isn’t her crying.

The bathroom of *Lucca’s Italian Trattoria* smelled of industrial lavender soap and bleach, a sterile combination that burned the back of my throat.

I knelt on the cold porcelain tile, my knees pressing against the grout, ignoring the wet patches soaking through my jeans. Ella was perched on the edge of the granite sink, her small sneakers dangling, kicking weakly against the cabinet doors. The pink buttercream was thick, oily with shortening, clinging to the delicate skin around her eyes, matted into her golden eyelashes, smeared into her hairline.

"Hold still, baby," I whispered. My voice was a frayed wire. "Close your eyes tight. Don't let it sting."

"It's in my ears, Mommy," she sobbed softly. Her chest hitched with every breath, small, shuddering gasps that tore straight through my ribs. "Why did Aunt Nessa do that? Was the cake bad?"

"No, sweetie. No. The cake was perfect. You did nothing wrong."

I ran warm water over a thick wad of paper towels, working gently at her cheekbones. The lavender dress—the one she had saved her allowance for, the one she had proudly pulled off the rack at Nordstrom Rack two weeks ago, insisting the scalloped sleeves made her look like a real ballet dancer—was ruined. The greasy magenta food coloring had soaked deep into the embroidered bodice. It looked like an open wound across her chest.

My hands were trembling so violently I could barely squeeze out the water.

Behind me, the heavy wooden door of the restroom creaked open. I snapped my head around, expecting a sympathetic waitress or a stranger wanting to offer wet wipes.

It was Adrian.

My husband didn't look angry anymore. That was the first thing that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The furious man who had knocked over his water glass in the dining room had vanished. In his place stood a man whose face was completely drained of color, his jaw tight, his eyes darting frantically between Ella and the hallway behind him.