Long after I had realized that my son would not be coming back, I kept the strawberry shortcake we were meant to have eaten together. I passed my days watching it rot. First, the cream turned brown and separated from the fat, staining the cellophane wrapper. Then the strawberries dried out, wrinkling up like the heads of deformed babies. The sponge cake hardened and crumbled, and finally a layer of mold appeared. “Mold can be quite beautiful,” I told my husband. The spots multiplied, covering the shortcake in delicate blotches of color. “Get rid of it,” my husband said.
