My wife shoved our six-year-old daughter’s face straight into her own birthday cake in front of twelve people.
Thirty seconds later, my mother pulled out her phone.
What she played made every person at the table stop breathing.
Until that moment, I believed I was watching my wife lose her temper.
I was wrong.
Rachel had not suddenly become cruel at Emma’s birthday party.
She had simply made the mistake of becoming cruel where other people could finally see her.
It was supposed to be the easiest birthday we had ever planned.
Nothing extravagant.
No rented hall.
No entertainer.
No giant inflatable castle covering the backyard.
Just family.
A few balloons.
Pizza.
Some paper decorations Emma had picked herself.
And one chocolate cake covered with strawberries because our daughter had talked about that cake for almost an entire month.
Every morning, Emma asked the same questions.
“Daddy, how many candles?”
“Six.”
“Can I blow them out twice?”
“You only get one wish.”
“What if I have two wishes
