“As I’ll ever be,” I said.

Between us, my eight-year-old daughter, Chloe, clutched a tray she’d refused to let me hold. The foil cover crinkled under her small fingers. She’d been up since morning, a whirlwind of flour and determination. Three failed batches, one perfect one. She had frosted them with the intense focus of a royal decorator. She was so proud, she could barely stand still.

We walked in. Conversations slowed, just for a second. My mother beamed, that practiced hostess smile that could double as a weapon. “There you are! We thought traffic swallowed you whole.”