The notice about our four-hundred-dollar mortgage increase lay on the kitchen counter just under the glass cake stand, its red warning stamp poking out from beneath the grocery receipt.

I tried hiding it with a blue napkin, but one corner still peeked through.

On the other side of the yellow tile, seven-year-old Sophie was carefully setting rainbow sprinkles into the thick chocolate frosting on her father’s birthday cake.

One silver sprinkle bounced off the rim of the cardboard cake board and dropped into a hairline crack by the sink.

Sophie fished it out with a damp thumb and popped it onto her tongue.

“Sea otters hold hands when they sleep so they don’t drift away,” she said, chewing on the wet ends of her brown hair.

“That’s really smart of them, bug,” I said, wiping a smear of frosting off her chin.

“Can we put all thirty-eight candles on it?” she asked.

“Maybe just eight,” I said, reaching for my favorite shrinking word before I could catch myself.

“We don’t want to set off the smoke detector out in the hall.”

I ran my right thumb along the edge of my index fingernail, feeling the little ridge in it that never quite grew out smooth.

At eight o’clock on the dot the heavy kitchen door swung open, letting in a cool draft from the driveway along with the strong smell of dark coffee and pricey cedar cologne.

Adam put his heavy leather briefcase down on the oak bench against the wall and loosened his silk tie with one hand.

“Thirty-eight today,” he said, walking over to the counter.

“I don’t feel thirty-eight.”

“Happy birthday,” I said, stretching up to kiss his cheek.

His skin was cool from the March air.

“Sophie helped choose the rainbow ones.”