I spent $3,870 on my twin daughters' twelfth birthday party.

On Wednesday afternoon, it was Molly’s turn.

Tessa was at an intense tactical soccer clinic until six o'clock, driven by David.

I picked Molly up from the middle school auditorium doors. She climbed into the passenger seat carrying a battered paperback copy of *Into the Woods*, its pages covered in colorful highlighter tabs and handwritten stage directions.

"How was rehearsal?" I asked, pulling away from the curb.

Molly sighed, leaning her head against the headrest, a dreamy, exhausted smile on her lips. "Mom, it’s amazing. When we do the prologue, everyone’s voices overlap like an intricate puzzle. Sarah Jenkins is playing the Baker’s Wife, and she hit this high G that gave me actual goosebumps."

"Did you sing your solo?"

Molly’s cheeks turned a delicate, rosy pink. "Just the first eight bars. Mrs. Gable stopped the piano and told me I was singing from my throat instead of my diaphragm because I was nervous."

"Did that make you feel bad?"

"No," Molly said, turning to look at me, her eyes dancing. "It was great! In choir, the teacher just waved her hands and said 'Good job, twins!' Mrs. Gable actually listened to me. She told me how to fix it."

I swallowed the familiar lump of guilt that threatened to rise every time they mentioned their past erasure.

"Well, you're going to need plenty of energy to practice that diaphragm," I said. "Because our first stop is downtown."

I took Molly to a tiny, eccentric vintage bakery tucked down an alleyway off the historic town square—a place I had never brought the girls because its mismatched antique furniture and peeling floral wallpaper didn't fit the sleek, modern aesthetic I used to curate.

The display case was filled with scratch-made pastries.

And in the center sat a towering, golden-yellow lemon meringue pie, its peaks toasted to a perfect marshmallow brown.

Molly gasped, pressing her nose against the glass like a toddler. "Mom. Look at that."

"Two slices, please," I told the woman behind the counter. "And two pots of chamomile tea."

We sat in two plush, velvet armchairs by the window. The bakery was quiet, smelling of browned butter, cinnamon, and sharp citrus.

Molly took her first bite of the pie. She closed her eyes, letting out a soft, ecstatic hum that made the elderly couple at the next table chuckle.

"Good?" I asked.

"It's heaven," Molly whispered. "It tastes like actual sunshine."

She pulled her script onto her lap, smoothing the cover with her palm.

"Mom?"

"Yes, honey?"

"Do you think... do you think it’s bad that I like being alone sometimes?"

I set my teacup down. "Why would that be bad, Molly?"

"Because Tessa is my best friend," Molly said, her voice dropping into a quiet, introspective register. "I love her more than anyone in the world. But sometimes, when she’s talking about soccer stats or when she’s pacing around the room because she has too much energy, I just want to put on my headphones and disappear into a book. And then I feel like a terrible sister."

"Molly," I said gently, leaning forward. "Loving someone doesn't mean you have to breathe their air twenty-four hours a day. Even husbands and wives need space. Especially sisters. Wanting quiet time isn't a betrayal of Tessa. It’s just taking care of Molly."

Molly looked down at her highlighted script. "When we were in the shared room, I used to wait until she fell asleep to practice my lines in the bathroom with the fan on so I wouldn't wake her up."

"And now?"

Molly looked up, a radiant, peaceful smile spreading across her delicate features. "Now I can stand in the middle of my room, look out the window at the stars, and sing as loud as I want. And nobody tells me to shut up."

"Sing for me," I said softly.

Molly froze, her eyes widening. "Here? In the bakery?"

"There are only four people in here," I said, gesturing to the quiet shop. "Sing the first eight bars. From your diaphragm."

Molly looked at the elderly couple, then at the barista wiping down the espresso machine. She took a deep, shuddering breath, sat up straight in the velvet armchair, and placed her hand over her stomach.

Then, she opened her mouth.

*“Into the woods, it’s time to go, it may be foul, it may be fair, into the woods, or else the journey must begin...”*

Her voice was clear, bell-like, and surprisingly powerful for someone so small. It resonated through the quiet bakery, pure and true, vibrating with an authentic, unmanufactured beauty.

When she finished the phrase, the barista stopped wiping the counter and began to clap. The elderly woman by the window smiled warmly, nodding in approval.

Molly buried her face in her hands, giggling uncontrollably, her ears glowing red.

I reached across the small wooden table, gently pulling her hands away from her face.