When they pulled the tarp off her car, the music kicked in—something loud and thumpy, clearly made for TikTok—and everybody started clapping like it was the damn Oscars. The bass rattled the cheap plastic cups on the folding table. Kylie’s friends squealed before they even saw the car, phones already up, filters already on, because God forbid a moment happen without being turned into content.
My sister Kylie stood there gasping like she’d just seen Jesus rise up from under the hood instead of a new white Range Rover. She covered her mouth with both hands, eyes shining, doing that little hop in place she’d perfected since middle school when she wanted everyone to see just how happy she was. Dad, beaming from ear to ear, handed her the keys with a dramatic bow that would have made a proposal look modest.
There were pink and silver balloons tied to the side mirrors, a sparkly bow slapped on the windshield, and even a local bakery cake with her name scrolled across it in gold icing like she was being crowned royalty. Someone had arranged cupcakes in the shape of a “27” on a separate tray. A banner that said “Congrats Kylie!” in cursive hung crookedly between the garage door and the porch light.
She squealed and jumped and hugged everyone while someone—I think Mom’s church friend—filmed it all with a ring light like this was a red carpet event and not our cracked concrete driveway in suburban Ohio. The neighbors peeked over their fences. A couple walking their dog slowed down to watch.
It was a production. A spectacle. A statement.
I stood to the side with a paper plate and a plastic fork, biting into dry vanilla cake and watching as my father kissed her forehead and told her she deserved the world. The frosting stuck to the roof of my mouth, too sweet, too much, but I kept chewing because it gave me something to do besides stare. Then he turned to me, casual as ever, and said, “Don’t worry, Han.
We’ll do something small for you later.”
I felt it land, that sentence, like a wet rag slapped onto the middle of my chest. Small. Later.
The two words they’d practically raised me on. I smiled. I nodded.
I said, “Thank you,” like a good daughter is supposed to. I even laughed when Kylie joked that maybe I’d get a gas card this year if I played my cards right. Everyone laughed with her like it was the funniest thing in the world—that my reward for thirty-two years of breathing would be fifty bucks toward unleaded.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
