A woman from my book club touched my arm. “Cassie… I didn’t expect to see you here.”

I attempted a smile. “I wasn’t sure I’d come back either.”

She gave my arm a gentle squeeze and moved on.

Rosie opened the door before I knocked. For a split second, surprise flickered across her face before she replaced it with a wide smile. “You came,” she said, a warning beneath her tone.

“Yes,” I answered. “We need to talk. You scheduled your housewarming for the day of Nancy’s funeral.”

Her eyes flicked to the people behind me. “Could you not say that so loudly? “If you do this in front of everyone, Cassie, I’ll tell them you’re unstable. I’ll make sure they believe it. Mom even chose me over you.”

“I’m not whispering about my child, Rosie.”

“You’re bringing down the mood, Cassie.” She flashed another smile at someone waving from the sidewalk. “Come inside before you freeze.”

I stepped inside, scanning the room. Streamers draped from the ceiling; guests laughed; someone poured wine. No one met my eyes for long.

Not a single black dress. Not a single hushed voice. Just music loud enough to pretend grief was something you could ignore next door.

I was certain my daughter’s name hadn’t been spoken once in this house.

Rosie pulled me into the hallway.

“Don’t make this about you, Cassie,” she said.

“You made it about you,” I replied. “You chose the day I buried her.”

She exhaled sharply. “Today worked. I’m not postponing my life because you’re falling apart.”

“She was seven.”
Rosie’s lips tightened. “And I’m thirty-two. People are here for me.”

I held her gaze. “Then look at me and say it: balloons mattered more.”

Her voice sliced through the hallway. “You’re wearing sadness like a costume. Get over yourself!”