"Your birthday should be my suffering day," Victoria's voice came out of my phone like a blade.
The bistro went quiet. Forks paused mid-air. A waiter froze with a tray. Sara's laugh died in her throat and turned into a growl. I watched the message play again, stroppy and clear: "You think it's your day? It's my stage. Everyone loves a tragic hero—why should I miss the show?"
"You saved that for a voicemail?" Marcus, from work, said. He tried to grin, but his eyes were flat. "Rough family."
"She'll make anything about her," Sara said. Her hand found my knee under the table and squeezed. Hard. "Don't feed her."
I thumbed the screen off. The baritone in the bistro resumed—someone clinked a glass, chopped parsley on a plate—but the air between us hummed. Birthday lights hung in a single strand over the booth, cheap glitter that wanted to be warmth and didn't manage it.
"To Dani," someone said. "Another blasted year and somehow you still look like you bribed gravity." Laughter. Glasses lifted.
"To staying upright," I said. I tapped the rim of my glass against Sara's. The sound felt small. I wasn't good at being the center. That was the family's job. Making me the center so they could point.
"Play something else," Marcus muttered, nudging his phone. "That voicemail—"
"Let it play," Sara said. "Let everyone hear."
So I did. I didn't
