Chapter 9 - The Birthday That Finally Belonged to Her
The following October, Nora turned thirty-four.
She expected nothing.
Adrian told her they were going to dinner.
She wore a simple black dress.
He took her to Marlowe House.
The same restaurant.
The same kitchen.
The same private room.
Nora smiled.
“You planned this.”
“Yes.”
She opened the door.
The entire room was full.
Claire.
Ethan.
Mason.
Elena.
Gabriel.
Theo.
Harrison.
Employees from the bakery.
Friends.
People from her life.
And on the table was a cake.
Pistachio.
Strawberries.
Crookedly arranged.
Just like her father's.
Nora covered her mouth.
Adrian stood behind her.
“No one forgot this time.”
Claire began crying.
“I really am sorry.”
Nora laughed.
“I know.”
They sang.
Nora blew out the candles.
Then Adrian handed her a gift.
A framed photograph.
Her father.
Young.
Smiling.
Holding a baby Nora.
On the back was a handwritten note.
Your father remembered too.
Nora sobbed.
Adrian held her.
That night, after everyone left, they stood beside the window.
Nora rested her head against him.
“I used to think birthdays were about being remembered.”
“What are they about now?”
“Being loved.”
He kissed her forehead.
“You are.”
She looked at him.
“I know.”
Outside, Chicago glittered.
The city that had once frightened her now looked different.
Not because it had changed.
Because she had.
She wasn't the lonely pastry chef anymore.
She wasn't the daughter of a vanished man.
She wasn't the woman Adrian watched from a distance.
She was Nora.
Wife.
Mother.
Baker.
May you like
Woman.
And she had chosen her own life.
