AT YOUR FATHER’S 60TH BIRTHDAY, HE RAISED A BELT TO YOUR THREE-YEAR-OLD DAUGHTER OVER A SODA… BUT HE FORGOT YOU WERE THE ONE PERSON IN THAT HOUSE WHO KNEW EXACTLY HOW TO END HIS REIGN

You always knew your father’s sixtieth birthday would be a performance.

Not a celebration, not really. A performance. The kind of family event where people dressed up resentment, plated old power on expensive serving trays, and called it tradition because that sounded prettier than fear. The invitations had gone out six weeks earlier on thick cream cardstock with gold lettering, because your mother believed good paper could make ugly people look respectable.