Chapter 3 - The Stolen Seat
The birthday dinner was held in my Pasadena home. It was the exact same beautiful, historic craftsman house where Natalie had learned to ride her bike with training wheels. The same house where my Clara used to sit on the wide front porch eating fresh peaches in the sweltering summer heat. The same house where every single packed bookshelf still carried the gentle, lingering ghost of my daughter.
I had meticulously planned the menu: wild-caught salmon, prime rib, truffle mushroom risotto, haricots verts, and a towering vanilla cake with fresh raspberry filling—Natalie’s absolute favorite.
I wore my best pearls. I put on my favorite crimson lipstick.
I let myself foolishly believe that maybe, just tonight, Natalie would remember I was not an obstacle to be overcome. Maybe she would finally remember I was her family.
But Natalie arrived forty minutes late, making a grand, theatrical entrance in a glittering gold designer dress. On her wrist flashed a heavy diamond bracelet—the very one I had purchased for her thirtieth birthday just last year.
She did not hug me. She did not say happy birthday. She barely even looked at me.
She walked straight to the long, beautifully set dining table.
Then, she deliberately moved my hand-calligraphed place card.
I was, of course, supposed to sit at the head of the table. I was the matriarch. I was the birthday girl.
Natalie sat there instead, spreading her gold skirt over the chair. She casually tossed my place card near the swinging kitchen door, next to the serving staff's staging area.
I saw her do it. Graham saw her do it.
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I said absolutely nothing. I took the seat near the kitchen, because I had spent a lifetime desperately making peace out of broken, jagged things, terrified of losing the only piece of Clara I had left.
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