My daughter just sat there frozen.

I didn’t yell.

I did this.

The next day, they called me in a panic.

My daughter, Lily, had been counting down for weeks. She’d circled the date on the calendar herself, drawing little hearts around the number seven.

That morning, she was already dressed before I even rolled out of bed, twirling in her blue party dress like it was Cinderella’s ball gown.

“Do you think they’ll like the cake?” she asked me, eyes wide, almost breathless.

“They’ll love it,” I said.

I didn’t add that I’d been up until midnight frosting it twice because the first layer slid sideways, or that my fingers were still sticky from blowing up balloons at two in the morning.

The living room was cozy, not extravagant. Streamers, balloons, the slightly crooked banner, plates lined with sandwiches and cookies.

Nothing fancy, but it had heart.

The doorbell rang.

Lily’s face lit up.

“They’re here.”

I opened the door and in swept my sister Angela, heels clicking, perfume cloud trailing with her three children, Tori, Brandon, and Joshua, marching behind her like little soldiers.

My parents followed, coats tight around their shoulders, eyes already scanning the room.

“Happy birthday,” I said brightly.

My mother’s gaze flicked to the cake, then to me.

“Oh, you baked,” she said.

Not unkind.

Not kind either.

My sister gave the room a slow once-over, lips twitching.

“It’s cozy.”

Cozy.

The word hung in the air like smoke.

Her eldest daughter, Tori, let out a little laugh, quickly covered by her hand.

My father cleared his throat.

“Smells like chocolate.”

I couldn’t tell if that was approval or a complaint. With him, it was always both.

Lily darted forward, her smile so wide it hurt to look at.

“Hi, Grandma. Hi, Grandpa.”

She tugged gently at my mother’s sleeve, waiting for a hug.

My mother patted her arm absently, already turning toward the food table.