“We won’t discuss it further. Tonight we are celebrating your day-old birthday. The others will be here soon, and we’ll have a toast. Is everyone coming?”

“As far as I know.”

“How about Addie? Is she okay?”

“I’m not surprised you’ve noticed a change,” said Hazzley. “I’ve been wondering myself. She’s been tired out. Last two meetings, I was certain she’d fall asleep at the table. Still, she keeps showing up. She wants to be here. I’m just careful about intruding, you know? Don’t want to push hard. Don’t want to push at all.”

“Grief can be unrelenting,” said Cass. “We never know when it will take us by surprise. I’ve been through this and so have you. Maybe the loss of her friend is eating her up.”

“All the more reason to have people around her. People who care. And have you considered this? When we lose someone close, we begin to think of our other losses. When Lew died, I mourned my parents all over again. My mum, my dad.”

Chiyo arrived just then. “Something special going on?”

“Hazzley’s birthday,” Cass said. “I’ll join in for a bit of cake, if no one minds. Rice told me he’d help out in the café. If things aren’t too busy, he’ll bring his guitar back here and play some jazz for us later.”

“Sounds great,” said Chiyo. “I’ve heard him play and he’s wonderful. Happy birthday, Hazzley. We’re due a celebration.”

She took her coat to the side of the room and hung it on a hook while thinking of friends and relatives whose birthdays she and her mom had celebrated during her childhood. They’d be invited for lunch, maybe dinner. Everyone ate a hearty meal: beef teriyaki over rice, maybe stir-fry with noodles. Sometimes salmon tempura was on the menu, if fresh salmon could be found and, more crucially, afforded. After everyone had eaten, the table was cleared. The men and boys went outside or into the living room, while the women and girls washed the dishes and stacked them in the cupboards. As soon as the place was cleaned up, the Japanese teapot was pulled out. Green tea, ocha, was poured. Instead of plain green tea, genmaicha—popcorn tea—was sometimes served. That was Chiyo’s favourite because roasted brown rice was added to give it a nutty flavour. But that wasn’t all. Colourful bowls were filled to the brim with various kinds of Japanese crackers, arare. Sometimes a tray of leftover sushi was unwrapped. Dishes were set out—smaller dishes than those used for the main meal—and everyone drifted back to the table. All of that before the birthday cake was served.

Where were those other girls now? For sure, they wouldn’t have lived with their mothers until they were forty.

The rest of the company had arrived, Addie looking weary, downcast. She cheered up when she saw that they’d be celebrating Hazzley.

Cassie brought matches to light the candles, one for each decade of Hazzley’s life. “She’ll have eight the year she turns eighty,” she said. “This year and next, she gets seven.”