The candles sit, unlit.

The balloons, tied to the back of your chair, shift with the air, the only things moving in the silence.

You sit at the table, hands folded in your lap, back straight like you are still waiting for someone to arrive. Like any second now, the knock will come, the laughter will fill the room, and this will all make sense again.

Your mother moves between the kitchen and the window, arms crossed, glancing at the clock, then at the driveway, then back at the clock. Her jaw is tight.

Your father is in the study, the door half-closed. His voice drifts through the crack, soft, steady—reading scripture aloud to no one but himself.

The clock ticks.

A car passes outside, and you sit up, breath catching. But it does not slow. It does not stop. It does not belong to anyone who was supposed to be here.

You blink, eyes darting from the empty plates to the sagging ribbons to the cake—untouched, uncut, the frosting too bright under the kitchen lights.

“They’re not coming.”

It is not a question.

Your mother turns sharply, her mouth already open, ready to deny, ready to tell you to wait just a little longer, but she stops.

She knows.

You know.

“They said they would come,” you say, voice cracking on the last word. It is not loud, not a wail or a sob, but something smaller, something worse – something broken.

She swallows, kneels beside you, reaches for your hands, but you pull them away.

Your father’s voice rises in the other room, steady, patient. “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

Your stomach twists.

You do not know what you were expecting him to do, but it was not this.

You turn to your mother, voice pleading. “Why didn’t they come?”

She shakes her head, rubbing at her forehead like she is trying to push away an ache. “I don’t know, sweetheart. Maybe—”

“Did I do something wrong?”

The words are out before you even know you are asking them.

Your mother’s expression crumples. “Oh, honey, no. No, you didn’t do anything.” She cups your face, strokes your cheek with her thumb. “They’re just—they don’t understand how special you are.”

It is meant to comfort. It doesn’t.

Special people have friends.

You look back at the table, at the cake, at the empty seats, and feel the shame rise like heat, like nausea, like something burning at the edges of your ribs.

I have never wanted to speak so badly.

I want to tell you I am here. That I have always been here.

To help you blow out the candles if your mother would just light them, why won’t she at least light them!

Instead, we watch as your mother stands, frustration winning out as she mutters, “I’m calling their parents.”

I watch as your father’s voice continues, steady and distant, beyond the half-closed door.

And I watch as you sit, small and still, staring at the unlit candles, understanding—too soon, too young—what it means to be alone.