“Fine,” she said. “But you are not telling them it’s my birthday.”
“I make no promises.”
“Daphne.”
“Fine. No singing.”
That got a laugh out of her.
It felt like a victory.
On the night of her birthday, I picked her up myself.
When Molly opened her front door, I almost didn’t recognize the nervousness beneath her smile.
She had dressed carefully.
Dark pants, a soft blue blouse, a silver necklace, and the earrings my father had bought her years ago.
“You look beautiful,” I told her.
She immediately glanced down at herself.
“You have to say that.”
