Talia had glitter in her hair.
She brushed at it for the fifth time, but the silver flecks clung stubbornly to her curls, catching the light no matter how she turned her head. The crafts room smelled like glue and ribbon, melted chocolate and pine, with a faint trace of orange zest—because she had decided, somewhat optimistically, that citrus felt celebratory.
Eighteenth birthdays were supposed to matter.
They marked a crossing. A shift. The moment boys became men, heirs stepped forward, and the world recalibrated around them.
Her sons were eighteen today.
Every year, without fail, Alina had done something. Sometimes it was elaborate. Sometimes chaotic. Sometimes bordering on absurd. Alina believed birthdays were sacred and treated them like small festivals that demanded joy whether a
