At dessert, someone rose to give a toast.
They praised Ava for preparing an entire feast, refusing to quit after being rejected, and cooking food better than meals they’d paid professionals to serve.
Everyone stood and applauded.
Then another cake appeared.
Not Ava’s.
A store-bought backup someone had brought.
But the guests insisted she cut her own creation.
She did.
Her smile was small.
But genuine.
Finally, I could breathe.
Yet the night wasn’t finished.
At 2:00 a.m., while I was still awake, the journalist sent me a
