Five weddings, three rehearsal dinners, my parents’ anniversary, and one cake I assembled while running a fever. Every celebration seemed to begin the same way: I entered through the service door, carrying cakes and pastries, then disappeared beside catering carts and trash bins while everyone else enjoyed the party. Afterward, my mother would hug me and say they knew they could always count on me. For eleven years, I mistook being useful for being loved.

At Priya’s wedding, I sat in my truck repairing a cake tier that had shifted during the drive. Marisol came outside with leftovers and told me not to take it personally. I wasn’t “wedding material,” she said. I was the person who made weddings happen. Later, Beckett asked me what I actually wanted. Standing behind my bakery in an apron, I finally said, “I want to be a guest at something once.” So on August 22 at five o’clock, I had my own reception at Wrenfield Vineyard. Eighty-four people came. Someone brought me a plate. I sat down and actually ate. Then, at 7:50, my phone lit up with nine messages. My mother and sister were waiting at the gravel gate.