zoo, pages for the face painting, pages for dresses she liked, and an entire page dedicated to the chocolate fountain she had seen in a party catalog.

At bedtime she would slide the scrapbook out from under her pillow and whisper, “When I’m seven, can it really look like this?”

I always told her I would do my best.

Then I decided my best had to mean more than usual.

For eight months, I saved.

Every extra shift I could take, I took.

If a coworker wanted to swap and it meant overtime, I said yes.

I stopped buying coffee, packed leftovers, canceled subscriptions, and ignored the hole in the sole of my work shoes because shoes could wait.

I named the savings account Emma’s Magic Day.

No one knew that except me.

When I finally hit $5,000, I cried in my car in the hospital parking lot.

It was the first time in years I had saved that much money for something joyful instead of something frightening.

I wanted the day to be unforgettable.

That is when I found Patricia.

She ran a children’s event-planning service and had a portfolio full of parties that looked straight out of magazines.

Tea parties in rose gardens.

Dinosaur adventures in wooded parks.

Mermaid setups with pearl-colored balloons and tables that looked like they belonged underwater.

Her reviews were glowing.

Parents said she was organized, creative, and wonderful with kids.

We met three times.

I showed her Emma’s scrapbook.

Patricia actually put a hand over her heart and said, “Oh, she knows exactly what she wants.

I love that.” She promised she could make it happen.

We discussed colors, activities, cake, layout, timing, backup plans for weather, every detail.

Pink and gold.

Castle entrance.

Petting zoo on the grass by the side fence.

Face painting near the back.

Balloon artist at three.

Cake at four.

Everything centered on Emma.

The party was booked for Saturday, October 28, from two to six at Riverside Park’s main pavilion.

Emma’s second-grade class was invited, along with parents and a few family members.

I sent custom invitations Patricia designed with a castle silhouette and Emma’s name in gold script.

And yes, I invited my sister Vanessa.

To explain why that matters, I have to explain what Vanessa has always been like.

She is four years older than me.

Growing up, she was the one everyone noticed first.

She was beautiful in the effortless way that made strangers compliment her in grocery store lines.

She was charming when she wanted to be, dramatic when she didn’t get enough attention, and somehow our mother treated every one of her disasters like proof that she needed more understanding, more money, more time, more grace.

I was the practical one.

The one who got good grades, followed rules, and learned early that being dependable rarely gets celebrated because people start treating it like your natural function.

When I got pregnant with Emma, Vanessa told me I was making a huge mistake.

When Emma’s father left, she said she wasn’t surprised because men don’t stay where life is all responsibility and no fun.

Even now, I can still hear the way she said fun, like I had failed some glamorous test no one told me I was taking.

Vanessa could never hold