The icing is blue, like each of the last four years. “Sit still,” her mother says, “and think about what you did. You are a wicked, jealous child and no child of mine.” It will be many hours until her mother unlocks the door. She thought she was being a good girl, a good sister. How could she possibly have known, only three years old herself? She didn’t like hearing her little brother cry, left all alone. She had thought the cat would be a comfort to him. This year she has stolen matches hidden in her dress pocket. She lights the candles then blows them out, imagining his breath. She knows there will never be a cake with pink icing.
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