“Almost,” I said. The table was full. My parents at the ends like bookends, my sister Monica across from us, her daughter Sienna already halfway through her mashed potatoes. Chloe stood beside me, tray in hand, vibrating with anticipation, waiting for someone to notice.

“She made dessert,” I said, smiling down at her. “All by herself.”

A chorus of polite, meaningless noises followed. “Oh, how sweet.” “How ambitious.” “How adorable.” The kind of compliments that bounce off the surface and disappear before they hit anything real.