When my cousin Briar turned twenty-five, people joked that she bought too many shoes. When my cousin Wesley turned thirty, they teased him for caring far too much about golf.
But when the birthday was mine, the whole room sharpened.
My cousins always kept the cruelest remarks for me.
“Sadie still dresses like she’s waiting for someone to discover her at a bookstore.”
“Sadie’s love life is so empty even her cat looks concerned.”
“Sadie works at a nonprofit, which is a polite way of saying she’s allergic to money.”
Everyone laughed.
Every year, I smiled until my face ached.
This year, I turned thirty-two.
And this year, I let them laugh before I answered.
I sat at the end of the long table in a dark green dress, my hair neatly pinned, my hands folded beside a birthday cake I had never requested. My grandmother, Eleanor Ashford, watched from her chair near the fireplace, silent and impossible to read. She was ninety-one, graceful as a blade, and the only person in that house who had ever truly seen me.
My cousins arrived prepared for entertainment.
Briar brought her new fiancé, a venture capitalist named Logan who kept calling me “the charity cousin.” Wesley brought a bottle of bourbon and the expression of a man who had never been told no. My youngest cousin, Paige, had already posted a photo of me online with the caption: Our favorite mysterious underachiever turns ancient tonight.
Dinner moved along with polite conversation. Then Aunt Meredith clapped her hands.
“Time for Birthday Truth!”
The room cheered.
I looked toward my grandmother. She gave the smallest nod.
