Dorothy carefully prepared dinner and cake, waiting anxiously for her family who never arrived.
But when the doorbell finally rang, she found a courier holding a cake with words that shattered her heart: “We Know What You Did.” Her buried past had returned to haunt her.
Dorothy moved slowly across the small, cozy kitchen, her slippers making soft whispers against the worn wooden floor.
She paused briefly, adjusting the heavy glasses that slid down her nose.
With careful fingers, she touched the edges of the calendar near the refrigerator, its corners curled from months of use.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, counting each square carefully until her finger reached today’s date, brightly circled in cheerful red ink: “My Birthday.”
Dorothy felt a gentle warmth spreading in her chest, like the soft morning sunlight filtering through her curtains.
Birthdays always brought hope, even if quietly, even if she celebrated alone.
She turned toward the stove, setting aside her thoughts, and busied herself with preparations.
The kitchen quickly filled with comforting sounds—the steady chopping of fresh vegetables, the gentle sizzling of meat in the pan, and the soothing bubbling of pots on the stove.
She moved around her kitchen as if dancing slowly to music only she could hear, creating dishes that had once made her children smile.
The smell of freshly baked bread drifted warmly through the air, mingling with the sweet aroma of roasted vegetables and savory chicken.
Each plate she prepared was carefully placed on the table, as if setting the stage for a wonderful evening, a quiet hope glowing inside her.
Finally, she reached for the pie she’d baked earlier, placing it gently on the counter.
Dorothy picked up a butter knife and carefully spread frosting across its surface, smoothing each stroke thoughtfully, imagining Miley and Ryan tasting it, laughing as they used to.
Finished, she proudly placed the dish at the center of the table.
Exhausted, Dorothy sank slowly into her chair, feeling the weight of the day settling into her bones.
She reached out and gently picked up an old framed photograph resting nearby.
The picture showed her at a lakeside, smiling broadly, holding tightly onto fifteen-year-old Miley and eight-year-old Ryan, their faces bright with happiness and sunshine.
But Dorothy’s smile slowly faded. She traced the torn edge of the photograph with her finger, noticing again the empty space beside her.
Someone had once stood there, their face removed harshly, angrily torn away, leaving nothing but empty whiteness.
A haunting emptiness stared back at her, reminding her of a sadness she’d tried to forget.
Dorothy’s eyes darkened with pain, a heavy feeling pressing on her heart again.
She carefully placed the photograph back on the table, feeling the quiet loneliness of memories settling softly around her like a familiar, heavy blanket.
Evening arrived slowly, shadows creeping through Dorothy’s small home, stretching quietly across the walls.
She had set the table carefully, using her best dishes and placing candles at the center.
Their soft glow flickered gently, making the room feel warm, hopeful, but oddly quiet.
Dorothy stood by the front door, her small, thin frame trembling just a bit from excitement.
She kept glancing at the clock, noticing each slow tick. Her heart fluttered nervously.
She had waited for this evening for weeks, eager to see Miley and Ryan again, hoping to hug them tightly, just like she used to when they were children.
Minutes passed slowly, turning into hours.
The house remained silent, heavy with emptiness.
Dorothy moved quietly to the window, pulling the curtain aside slightly and peeking anxiously into the dark driveway.
But there was no movement, no car lights approaching, no comforting sound of footsteps coming closer.
She felt worry tighten in her chest. Taking a deep breath, she picked up her phone, fingers shaking as she dialed Miley’s number.
No answer. She quickly tried Ryan’s number, her heart beating faster with each unanswered call.
“Why aren’t they here?” Dorothy whispered softly to herself, feeling a cold fear begin to twist inside her.
“Did something happen? Are they okay?”
Suddenly, the sharp ring of the doorbell cut through the silence. Dorothy jumped, heart racing with relief, convinced that finally, her children had arrived.
She hurried toward the door, smiling, hopeful.
But when she opened it, her hopeful expression quickly faded. It wasn’t Miley or Ryan. Instead, a young courier stood awkwardly in front of her, holding a neat white box.
“Miss Dorothy?” he asked politely, holding out the box carefully.
“This was ordered especially for you.”
Dorothy took the box, feeling confused and disappointed. “Who sent it?” she asked quietly.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t have that information,” the courier replied gently, stepping back into the dark evening.
Slowly, Dorothy closed the door and carried the box carefully to the table. She placed it gently down, her hands trembling slightly as she lifted the lid.
The address was Milie`s, her daughters.
Inside was a beautiful cake, carefully decorated with delicate white frosting.
For a brief moment, Dorothy felt warmth return, thinking perhaps her children had sent it as a surprise.
But as she read the message written carefully across the top, the warmth vanished instantly, replaced by a cold fear.
Her hands shook violently as her eyes filled with tears.
“We Know What You Did.”
Dorothy’s breath caught sharply in her throat, her heart pounding painfully as old fears rushed back to haunt her.
She pulled up her car quickly to Miley’s house, her heartbeat thumping loudly in her ears.
She rushe
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