On Bianca’s next birthday she threw herself a party. She hired a planner who was not me and told me what time to arrive. I did. I wore a yellow dress because the world had taught me to dim and I was done practicing. Halfway through the night she pressed a cupcake into my hand with a single unlit candle and said, “For your seventeen missed candles.” We stood by the balcony door, and she lit it, and we watched it burn down in a little ceremony only two people needed to understand. Then I blew it out and we joined everyone else.
Two weeks later, on mine, she came early and helped me clip sprigs of eucalyptus to the backs of chairs without trying to control the angle. She didn’t announce it on the internet. She didn’t make it about her. We ate lemon bars and dark‑chocolate cupcakes and took a picture where I looked like a person who knew the light switches in her own home.
When everyone left, I stood alone in my kitchen—quiet, uncluttered, mine—and cut myself another slice of cake because I could. I texted Aunt Susan a photo of the silver frame on my shelf, the index card tucked behind it, the calendar with two circles. She sent back a string of heart emojis and then, because she is also a person who does receipts, a final text: Proud of you for billing and for breathing.
I put the cake in the fridge, turned out the lights, and walked to my door. The index card didn’t need sharpening. It was written in me now: No unpaid labor. No more disappearing. I went to bed and slept like a girl who had finally planned the right party.
