Emily began cooking on Wednesday.
By Thursday morning, our kitchen no longer looked like a kitchen. It looked like a workshop. Counters were covered in dough. Recipe cards were taped to cabinets. Pots simmered slowly, filling the house with warmth and familiar smells.
She planned everything carefully.
Roasted chicken with herbs. Fresh salads with homemade dressings. Garlic bread baked from scratch. Appetizers arranged with care. Sauces simmered until midnight. And a blueberry crumble that made the house smell like comfort itself.
She slept in short stretches on the couch, waking every hour to check timers or stir a pot. I begged her to rest. She waved me off.
“I’m okay,” she said. And she was. Tired, yes. But proud.
I watched her work and felt something swell in my chest. Not just pride, but admiration. She was doing something generous, something demanding, simply because she wanted to give.
By Saturday afternoon, everything was nearly ready.
The party was scheduled for six o’clock.
At 4:12 p.m., my phone buzzed.
It was a text from my father.
“We’ve decided to celebrate at a restaurant instead. Adults only.”
I stared at the screen.
Read it again.
Adults only.
After three days of cooking.
After a seventeen-year-old poured her heart into feeding a room full of people.
There was no apology. No explanation. Just a decision made without her.
Without us.
