On the morning of my daughter’s third birthday, the house woke before the sun did. It always did on days that mattered. Jess moved quietly but efficiently through the kitchen, humming under her breath, the same tune she always defaulted to when she was nervous or trying to keep herself steady. The radio played softly, some early-morning host talking too cheerfully for the hour, and the smell of sugar and chocolate filled the air in a way that felt like safety. Evie sat at the table in her mismatched pajamas, her feet swinging above the floor, one sock half-off her heel. She colored with fierce concentration, tongue poking out slightly, her stuffed duck tucked beneath her arm like it was supervising the process. Jess had a smear of dark frosting on her cheek, and when I pointed it out, she laughed and tried to wipe it away with the back of her wrist, only smudging it further. It was such a small, ordinary moment that I barely noticed the way her laugh ended too soon, or how she stared at the cake a second longer than necessary before smoothing the frosting again. “Don’t forget,” she said, not turning around, “she wants the one with the glittery wings.