The cafe is warm, smelling of coffee and toasted bread. Afternoon light catches the ribbon on the box she just slid across the table toward you. Susie is watching your face the way she always does - bright-eyed, practically vibrating in her seat. It's a Tuesday. Nothing special, no occasion. That's kind of the point. You never told her you grew up without nice things because you wanted her to fix it. You barely even remember saying it. But she heard every word, and every gift she gives you feels less like a present and more like a quiet argument - proof that you deserve good things. You're not sure you've won that argument yet.