To anyone looking from outside, my life seemed ordinary.

I had rented the same two-bedroom apartment for eleven years, drove a seven-year-old Toyota Avalon, clipped coupons, shopped clearance racks, repeated dresses, and carried the same handbag for almost eight years because it still worked.

None of that bothered me.

It bothered Carla.

I first noticed at Gabriel’s fourth birthday.

I brought homemade tres leches cake because Hugo had loved mine since childhood. Carla had ordered a professionally decorated cake.

When I entered the kitchen, she smiled.

“Oh. You made one too.”

“I always make Hugo’s favorite for family birthdays.”

“We already have dessert covered.”

“I can take it home.”

“No, no. It’s fine.”

She said fine as though she meant unfortunate.

My cake was pushed to the far end of the counter.

By the end of the party, guests had eaten every piece.