Jake groans dramatically but can't hide his smile. "Mom, can't this wait until tomorrow? Or at least till after we eat?"

"Well, sorry for being excited," Lydia continues, undeterred. "God, I can't believe my baby boy is turning eighteen and Nora you'll be seventeen." She looks at us like we're still the kids who used to blow out candles together, chocolate frosting smeared across our faces.

She looks to mom who can't help but laugh at her best friend. "Kat, when did our babies stop being babies?"

My stomach knots at the mention of my birthday, an instant heaviness settling into my chest. The date looms in my mind like a shadow—June thirteenth. One year since we lowered Dad into the ground. One day after Jake's birthday, one day before mine. The universe's cruel joke, sandwiching the anniversary of the worst day of my life between two celebrations.

“We’ll do something special this year.” Lydia continues.

"Especially for Jake," Ollie chimes in. "Finally legal... well, for some things."

"Like voting," Mom adds pointedly.

"Yeah, exactly what I meant," Ollie says with a smirk, earning him a warning look from Mom.

"What do you think, Nora?" Lydia asks, her enthusiasm refusing to be dampened.

Everyone's looking at me now, waiting. I force my face into something resembling normalcy, swallowing past the thickness in my throat. "Whatever you plan will be great, Lydia. You always make it special."

What I don't say is: How do I blow out candles and make wishes when the biggest wish—to have Dad back, to hear his laugh one more time, to feel his arms around me—will never come true?

How do I smile when all I want to do is scream at the unfairness that he's gone and somehow the world keeps spinning, birthdays keep coming, as if nothing has changed?

"I vote for something low-key this year," Jake says, his eyes finding mine across the table. Sometimes I think he can read my thoughts. The gentle understanding in his gaze nearly breaks me.

"We can do low-key." Lydia claps her hands together.

Growing up close in age with the Sullivan boys meant we were always attached at the hip. Nate was the eldest, a year older than Ollie who is now nineteen. Jake a year younger than Ol and then little old me, the youngest of them all. Dad used to joke that they had planned it that way—one Sullivan, one Wells, perfectly spaced out like stepping stones.

"Speaking of time flying," Mom interjects gently, her eyes lingering on me a beat too long. She sees it—the struggle, the way I'm barely holding it together. "Maybe we should let the food get eaten before it gets cold?"

"Mom, you read my mind." Ollie says, stabbing a fork into a potato before shoving it into his mouth.