"Aunt called," he added quietly. "She wants to come to the birthday dinner next week."
My stomach tightened.
"She wants to come to the birthday dinner next week."
"Did you tell her yes?"
"I didn't tell her anything. I wanted to ask you first."
That was Lucas. Always careful, always considerate.
Unlike our aunt, who had spent the last eight years reminding me of everything I wasn't.
"She'll come anyway," I said. "She always does."
I remembered the first year after the accident that killed our parents.
"She'll come anyway,"
She'd showed up at our tiny apartment and looked around like she was inspecting a crime scene.
Lucas had been coloring at the kitchen table, oblivious.
"You really think you can raise a child on this salary?" she'd said. "Be honest with yourself."
I had been twenty-six. Grieving. Terrified.
And she had known exactly where to cut.
"Be honest with yourself."
