Then she pointed toward the cake.
“Noah! Your candles are melting!”
Someone laughed.
Then someone else.
Noah smiled for the first time since beginning his speech.
We gathered around the cake again.
Our singing was shaky at first.
Then louder.
By sunset, the party had somehow found its way back to laughter.
Eventually, the guests left.
The younger kids carried paper plates and leftover cake inside.
Without thinking, I picked up a stack of dirty dishes.
It was habit.
For ten years, when everyone else finished celebrating, I cleaned.
Before I reached the sink, someone took the dish towel from my hand.
Noah.
“I’ve got this.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
He smiled.
“I want to.”
Then Macy joined him.
Peter came next.
One after another, all five children began cleaning.
Some washed.
Some dried.
