One by one, the guests show up and change into their bathing suits. Boys and girls laugh and scream and splash each other in the ocean, but my Coco ignores them. She seems transfixed by the machine wearily cranking out iridescent globes that hover indefinitely over Pacific tides. After considerable wrangling, I get the group quieted and gathered in the living room. “How nice,” my daughter deadpans after unwrapping an outmoded doll. “Thanks, Jenny.” The kids clap and Jenny shrugs. The next present is a metallic robot dog. Setsuko places it on the carpet and presses the on switch. Lights flare up behind the dog’s red eyes and demonically glow. Its four limbs wheeze a hydraulic, grinding sound as it walks forward and pauses every ten seconds to issue forth a series of identical, soulless barks. Wyatt steps outside to talk on his cell. When it’s time to sing “Happy Birthday,” I try to get him to join in, but he waves me away with a flick of his wrist. I bring out a chocolate cake from the kitchen, and the rest of us bellow out the tune to my daughter.

“Now make a wish,” I tell her. The candles paint her face an ominous crimson. She closes her eyes tight, then pops them wide open and blows out the flames.

“The pony has arrived out back,” I say. “You can line up for a ride!” There is cheering and clapping and clamoring to get out of the house. Only Setsuko lingers.

“Mommy,” she says, sidling up to me. “Do you want to know what I wished for?”

“What, baby?” I ask.

Perhaps this is the big moment. I feel the surging inside my chest.

“I thought that since this was the last of my old birthdays that I’m free to be whatever I want.” She takes a deep breath. “I decided to tell you I don’t want to be a veterinarian when I grow up. I want to be an actress!”

“Don’t be silly,” I reply. “That’s not something you ever would have wanted.”

“I changed my mind,” she pouts.

“No,” I say. “That’s final. Why don’t you join your friends?”

“I hate you!” she shouts and storms the steps to where the pony and its trainer are pacing the same track of sand, a different child in the saddle every other pass. When she nears the group, they howl in laughter as the pony kinks up its tail and poops. Like something out of a nightmare, I watch Setsuko dart forward, pick up the shit, and hurl it at the other nine-year-olds. They howl in disgust and scatter toward the water while Coco grins as if possessed.

“Setsuko!” I scold, hurrying to the beach and grabbing her by the arms. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Leave me alone!” She tries to wriggle from my hold, but I won’t let go.

“I hope you’re aware of how much trouble you’re in, young lady,” I say. She stops struggling. Either cake or manure streaks one of her cheeks.