All the party guests were still in the living room, parents chatting over punch while kids played with balloons. But there, sitting stiffly in the middle of the group, was James’ mother, Helen.
She wasn’t mingling or laughing like everyone else. She sat with her hands folded neatly in her lap, and when our eyes met, I saw a faint smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. It sent a shiver down my spine.
In that moment, I knew. She was the only person who could have done this. Helen had destroyed my daughter’s birthday cake, and now she was sitting there looking smug about it.
“Helen,” I said sharply, my voice trembling with barely controlled rage. “Did you do this?”
She raised her chin defiantly, that awful smirk deepening on her face. “Why would I bother myself with a cake?”
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