My daughter had just turned thirteen, and I’d spent my Friday lunch break finalizing details for the galaxy cake she’d circled weeks ago—dark blue frosting scattered with tiny edible stars, a silver “13” topper that made her smile when I showed her the bakery’s Instagram post. The cake wasn’t enormous or elaborate, just the kind of careful, thoughtful thing a kid chooses when she wants her moment to feel special without being loud about it. Lena had shown me the picture on her phone with that particular deliberate seriousness she gets when she’s trying not to look like she cares too much, when she’s protecting herself from potential disappointment by pretending it doesn’t matter that much anyway.
“Can we do this one?” she’d asked, like she was negotiating for permission to check out a library book rather than asking for her own birthday cake. I’d screenshot the post immediately and texted the bakery before she could change her mind or talk herself out of wanting something nice. My name is Mia Taylor.
I’m thirty-nine years old, and I live in Columbus, Ohio, in a two-bedroom rental on a quiet street where the mailboxes all match and the neighbors wave but don’t ask too many questions. It’s the kind of neighborhood where you can maintain the illusion that everything’s fine as long as your grass isn’t too tall and your porch light stays functional. I work as a recruiter for a healthcare network, which is a professional way of saying I spend my days reading résumés and convincing people to accept jobs that pay slightly more than they think they deserve to ask for.
I’m good at it because I can read tone, can hear the insecurity under a confident voice, can identify the exact moment when someone is about to apologize for wanting more than they’ve been given. It’s funny, really, because I spent most of my adult life apologizing for wanting even the bare minimum for myself. I’m a single mother to Lena.
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