No one came to my daughter’s eighth birthday because my sister secretly told everyone I had canceled it. My parents t0ok her side and didn’t even call. I didn’t cry. The next m0rning, I made three phone calls that sent all of them into a panic.

She’s seven. That magical age when you still believe that if you try really, really hard, things will just work out.

And God, we tried. We really did.

Greg was blowing up balloons. Three popped in a row. The cat panicked and dove under the bed. Lily was counting down the minutes to three.

We’d invited 15 kids. She handwrote every invitation herself. Carefully picked which stickers to give to whom.

“So, it’s fair,” she said.

At 3:00, no one showed up.

Fine.

People are late. Traffic, kids, parking.

We stayed chill.

At exactly 3:15, the doorbell rang. I thought, finally, and yes, it started. Sort of.