My daughter saved the last slice for me

Dear Delyara, It was just cake. It was not just cake. I came into the kitchen late, still carrying the day in my face, and there it was on a plate with a note in her handwriting that said, “This is yours.” I could hear her in the next room telling her brother not to touch it because “Mum didn’t get one yet.” Something about that nearly undid me. I think mothers spend so much of life making sure everyone gets what they need first that being remembered in such a simple, domestic, unceremonious way can feel enormous. Not because I desperately needed sugar. Because I needed proof that I still exist in the middle of all the giving. I ate it standing by the counter. Very slowly.