My Mango Cake

On my seventh birthday, my mother brought back my cousin. She was allergic to mango, and my parents threw away my favorite mango cake. When I was twenty-seven years old, I saw the mango cake again. Everything had changed. The father who loved my cousin the most sadly passed away, and the mother who doted on my cousin the most personally killed her cousin who always praised everyone she met. While I was lying on the hospital bed dying, looking at the mango leaves outside the window, I vaguely saw the home of my childhood. There was no cousin's home, only our family of three. My dad held up the mango cake and said to me "Happy birthday Nana." My mother took out the new skirt she bought for me, put it on for me, kissed me on the face and said. "Nana is so beautiful." They looked at me with kind faces and loving faces, with long-lost doting in their eyes, just like how they used to look at their cousin. Wearing a beautiful dress, I circled around them like a butterfly, shouting happily. "Mom and Dad, look, I'm about to fly."