The kitchen smelled like vanilla frosting and coffee. Pink and gold balloons floated near the ceiling, bumping softly against each other whenever someone walked by. Streamers hung a little crooked because my husband insisted on helping, and he never measures anything. Evelyn was still in her pajamas, her hair wild from sleep, carefully lining up her stuffed animals on the living room rug.
“This is a ceremony,” she whispered seriously when I asked what she was doing. “They have to sit nicely.”
She placed her oldest teddy bear in the center like it was royalty. The others formed a half-circle around it. She stepped back, hands on her hips, inspecting the arrangement with deep concentration.
Watching her, I felt something warm and steady settle in my chest. Five years ago, I wasn’t sure I would ever get to plan a birthday party for a child of my own. There had been doctor appointments, quiet car rides home, polite smiles in grocery stores when I saw pregnant women and had to pretend it didn’t sting. There had been nights when I lay awake wondering if I would always feel like something was missing.
