Once, a straw-braided ring had circled that finger.
That poor boy, Anthony, had made it for me in the Sullivan family's back garden, his hands covered in blood.
He said: Layla, someday I'll replace it with a real one.
Now, the ring had long since rotted in the mud.
Me too.
At six in the morning, I fried eggs and toasted bread, cutting off the hard crusts.
Anthony doesn't eat lettuce, and he doesn't eat fried eggs with overcooked yolks.
I remembered his habits more clearly than my own birthday.
Out of habit, I swapped the lettuce for cucumber slices.
At seven, Anthony came downstairs.
Seeing the breakfast on the table, his steps faltered.
I stood by the dining table, hands folded, eyes lowered.
"Mr. Vance, breakfast is ready."
He walked over, his gaze landing on the sandwich.
The next second, he swept the plate straight into the trash.
A crisp clatter.
Anthony looked at me coldly. "Layla, who do you think I am? I stopped eating this cheap taste a long time ago."
I stared at the fried eggs scattered in the trash, and my chest tightened.
Back then, I'd hated how bland cucumbers tasted and made him switch to lettuce.
To please me, he'd forced himself to get used to it.