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absolutely nothing.
    The only thing she felt was relief when she saw Gram’s white clapboard house appear through the car window.  Though rundown and shabby outside—the white paint was pealing and the roof sagged some in the middle—Lucy only felt truly safe once she was inside.  As if the house itself repelled the horrors and pain that followed Lucy everywhere she went.
    Her grandmother’s kitchen made her feel warm.   It smelled sweet and inviting.  On the scarred kitchen table sat a round, simply decorated double layer white cake with pink roses and fancy filigree adorning the edges.
    Lucy felt her mouth fall open.  It was beautiful, and smelled so good.
    “Did you make this?”  Lucy said, her voice wavering.  She couldn’t believe that anyone had made a cake...not one this beautiful.  All her birthday cakes had been store bought, with heavy cream icing, themed with whatever her current obsession was that year, or had her picture airbrushed over the top.
    But this cake was handmade, just for her.  Her name swirled across the top in fancy letters, and happy birthday in smaller script below.  A party candle shaped like the number eighteen stood alone from the top of the cake.    
    “Don’t be too impressed,” Her grandmother said, striking a match and touching it to the candle’s wick.  “I used to decorate cakes for a living...oh, about a hundred years ago.”
    Lucy couldn’t help smiling.  Her grandmother never tried to hide her age—she wore it proudly, like a badge for all to see.
    “It’s gorgeous.”  Lucy closed her eyes and took a deep breath through her nose.  The aroma was intoxicating.  “No cake has ever smelled this good.”
    “Well then, make a wish and blow out the candle,” Gram said.  “Then we can have us a piece.”
    Lucy was suddenly torn from the wondrous scent of the cake, her attention splintered off in a million directions.  There were too many things to wish for.  Too many things she wished had never happened.  One—the night of her father’s arrest—burned somewhere deep in the back of her mind.  She would not look back there, or call it forward to her anymore.  That memory hurt too much.  Like how remembering who she used to be hurt too much.
    No, wishing for the impossible is stupid.  She took a breath, and it crackled in her lungs.  She closed her eyes.  If I just had one thing that was mine...something to remind me who I used to be...
    She blew, one short puff of air, and the candle went out, a small wisp of smoke rising from the tiny ember before it burned out.
    “Happy birthday, Lucybean!” her grandmother said, swooping down and kissing her cheek, hugging her around the back of her shoulders.  Lucy leaned into her grandmother’s warmth.  After a soothing moment, her grandmother stood and strode across the kitchen and opened a cabinet, pulling out two small plates.  “Time for cake.”
    Lucy watched as her grandmother cut the cake, not a tremor or tremble in her skilled hands, slicing off two perfect looking pieces.  The two women sat there, smiling at each other for a moment before digging into the cake.  The taste was even better than the smell, if that was even possible.  The icing had buttery lemon zest to it, delicate yet refreshing as ice cream on Lucy’s tongue.  The cake burst with oranges and white chocolate...and something else...the something else had some kick to it.
    “What’s in the cake?”  Lucy smiled as she licked her fork clean.
    Her grandmother got this look on her face—false innocence and shock.  “Whatever do you mean?”
    “I mean this cake is spiked.”  Lucy raised her eyebrow at her grandmother, and then took another big bite of the cake.
    Her grandmother primly blotted her lips with her napkin and grinned wickedly.
    “You are eighteen, after all...” She pursed her lips and then smiled wide, her face practically glowing.  “And I’ve had a bottle of Grand Marnier in the cabinet