The room was thick with the tension of disbelief. Dolores, still holding the cake precariously over the trash, hesitated. Her face bore the slightly puzzled expression of someone unable to comprehend the turn of events. The other parents exchanged uneasy glances, uncertain of whether Rosalie’s gesture would diffuse the situation or escalate it further. But Rosalie, with her small frame and big heart, stood firm, her eyes meeting Dolores’s with a maturity beyond her seven years.
“What’s this about?” Dolores finally asked, suspicion lacing her tone. She slowly set the cake down on the kitchen counter, sparing it from its trash-bound fate. The room’s attention pivoted to Rosalie, whose composure seemed to eclipse her age.
Rosalie, with a poise that surprised even me, navigated through her tablet’s screen until she found her masterpiece. She pressed play, and a series of images appeared on the screen, accompanied by a melody that Rosalie herself had hummed and recorded. The video opened with a photo of Dolores in her youthful glory, standing proud in front of the bank where she had worked for decades.