Opal turned seventy-five the following spring.

I baked a chocolate cake, invited two neighbors, and hung paper flowers across the dining-room archway.

She complained that I was making a fuss and then insisted everyone take photographs of the cake before we cut it.

After the guests left, I found her in the kitchen washing glasses.

“You could let me do those,” I said.

“I know.”

She dried her hands and leaned against the counter.

“Rebecca, I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”