Chapter 2 - Seven Candles in the Dark
Our kitchen smelled like burnt sugar and damp cardboard, but to Theo, it was heaven.
We had pushed the kitchen table against the window so he could look out at the little strip of grass behind our rental. I stuck the seven candles into the rocket ship cake, ignoring the slight dent on the left booster where Mom’s elbow had shoved it aside to make room for Mallory’s pink fondant tower.
"Ready, Commander?" Aaron asked, striking a long wooden match against the strike pad.
Theo stood up on his chair, his socks sliding slightly on the oak slats. He took a massive breath, puffing his cheeks out until he looked like the toddler who used to giggle when we tickled his surgical scar with a feather.
"Ready," he squeaked.
We sang. Just the two of us. We didn't have the twelve relatives Mom had gathered to watch Mallory’s gender reveal. We didn't have the church choir members Mom had invited over for "coffee and fellowship" under the guise of celebrating Theo. But when Aaron hit the harmony on the final *Happy Birthday to you*, Theo’s whole body shook with effort, and he blew.
A single blast of air wiped out all seven flames. Smoke curled toward the ceiling in sweet, thin ribbons.
"What did you wish for?" Aaron asked, catching him as Theo jumped off the chair into his arms.
"Can't say," Theo whispered gravely, tapping his nose. "If I tell, the space station loses power."
"Smart protocol," Aaron said, pressing a kiss to the boy's temple. "Go wash your hands. We’re doing two scoops of mint chip on top of the rocket fuel."
The second Theo’s sneakers vanished down the short hallway toward the bathroom, the laughter died out of Aaron’s face like water draining down a pipe. He walked over to the kitchen counter, picked up my phone, and opened the PDF again.
"Look at the date," he said quietly.
I walked over and leaned against his chest, feeling the heavy, uneven thud of his heart against my cheek. "August 14th."
"Theo's second surgery was August 18th," Aaron said. His voice was dangerously hollow. "Do you remember what Evelyn told us in the surgical waiting room while he was on the bypass machine?"
The memory was etched into my brain in acid.
I had been sitting in those orange vinyl hospital chairs, holding a paper cup of cold coffee that tasted like wet pennies. My clothes smelled like hospital sanitizer. Theo had been gone for four hours, and every time the double doors opened, my stomach dropped into freefall.
Mom had arrived at eleven that morning wearing a new beige suede jacket. She had sat down next to me, patted my knee with her manicured hand, and sighed.
*“Kendra, honey, you need to prepare yourself for the bills,”* she had whispered, leaning in while Aaron was down the hall trying to find a working payphone because our cell service was cut off for non-payment. *“I tried with the church. I really did. But people just don't have the spare cash right now with the economy. We only managed fourteen hundred dollars. I had to pay twenty dollars just for the wire transfer fee out of my own pocket, but of course I won't charge you for that.”*
And then she had kissed my forehead, smelled like lavender and expensive vanilla, and said: *“Don't worry about the money. Just focus on your boy. God will provide if you have enough faith.”*
"She bought the lake lot in September," I said. The realization hit me like a physical blow to the solar plexus. "Aaron. The down payment on the trailer lot at Lake Freeman. She told Dad her aunt left her an inheritance from a savings bond."
"She stole it from a two-year-old on life support," Aaron corrected, his voice dropping an octave into pure, murderous clarity. "She let us borrow five thousand dollars from your Uncle Dan with eight percent interest—money we're *still* paying back—while she sat on twenty-three thousand dollars collected from people who thought they were buying Theo's antibiotics."
My phone chimed on the granite.
It was Mallory.
*Mallory:* *I hope you're happy with yourself. Mom is literally in tears in the bathroom. Wayne had to drive to Walgreens to get her blood pressure medicine. You couldn't just give me three hours? You’ve had seven years of Theo. I’ve had three miscarriages. You are the most selfish, bitter sister on the planet. Don't bother coming to the shower next month.*
I looked at the message. Then I looked at the kitchen door where Theo was humming the Star Wars theme song while scrubbing his hands with bubblegum-scented soap.
For seven years, I had been the peacekeeper.
When Mallory crashed my high school graduation party by announcing her engagement to a guy she broke up with three weeks later, I smiled and poured the punch.
When Mom gave Mallory my grandmother’s heirloom cedar chest because "Mallory has a bigger living room for it," I said nothing.
When Mom spent Theo’s entire convalescence posting updates on her personal blog—complete with dramatic photos of his chest drains that I explicitly begged her not to share—earning herself hundreds of comments praising her as an "angelic grandmother," I bit my tongue because I didn't have the energy to fight a woman who fed on drama like oxygen.
"Kendra," Aaron said softly, watching my eyes. "What do you want to do?"
I walked to the kitchen drawer, pulled out the heavy manila folder where we kept our tax records, medical receipts, and the promissory note to Uncle Dan. I laid it on the counter next to the rocket cake.
"Call Sarah Lin," I said, my voice dead and cold. "Ask her if she has the original bank stubs from the auxiliary fund. And then call your cousin Greg."
Aaron paused. Greg was a junior partner at a mid-sized civil litigation firm in downtown Indianapolis.
"You want to sue your mother?" Aaron asked.
May you like
"No," I said, looking down at my son's forged signature on the bright screen of my phone. "I want her to pay back every red cent to Theo's college fund. And then I want everyone who sat in that living room today to know exactly who they were applauding."
***