My heels clicked against the polished marble of my apartment building’s lobby, the sound echoing through the emptiness of a Tuesday evening.
Another fourteen-hour workday behind me. Another milestone reached for Horizon Brands. The client had practically hugged me after my presentation.
I checked my phone again.
Still nothing.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and I stepped inside, watching my reflection multiply in the mirrored walls.
Quinn Edwards. Thirty-two years old today. Senior PR executive. Wearing exhaustion like expensive perfume.
My green eyes looked back at me, searching for something worth celebrating. The number on my screen didn’t change.
Zero messages. Zero calls.
I told myself it didn’t matter. I was a grown woman who handled multimillion-dollar accounts. Birthdays were for children.
But when I unlocked my apartment door, the small cake I’d bought myself that morning sat accusingly on the coffee table. A single candle stood unlit in the center.
A pathetic little soldier awaiting orders that would never come.
“Happy birthday to me,” I whispered to no one.
I dropped my leather briefcase beside the sofa and kicked off my heels before sinking into the cushions. My apartment felt hollow tonight, despite all the careful decorating I’d done to make it feel like home.
The clock on the wall ticked steadily toward midnight, measuring out the final minutes of my birthday. My phone remained stubbornly silent.
I reached for my laptop, thinking I would distract myself with work until the day was officially over. Maybe review the proposal one more time.
Instead, my fingers betrayed me and opened Facebook.
The first post froze me in place.
There was my brother Miles, champagne glass raised high, surrounded by smiling faces. Behind him hung a banner: Congratulations on Your Promotion.
My father’s arm was draped around his shoulder, pride radiating from every line of his face. My mother stood on his other side, beaming up at her son.
The timestamp showed the photos had been posted four hours earlier.
My birthday.
I scrolled down.
Each image felt like a fresh cut. Dozens of pictures. The entire extended family was there. Aunts, uncles, cousins I hadn’t seen in years. All gathered around Miles, celebrating.
The comments blurred as I stared at them.
So proud of our superstar, my father had written.
The Edwards family legacy continues, my mother added.
My hand trembled as I set the laptop down.
They hadn’t forgotten my birthday.
They had chosen to celebrate something else instead.
Again.
The memory surfaced without invitation.
I was eleven, sitting alone at a restaurant table, a single birthday candle melting into my slice of cake while I waited for my family to come back from Miles’s debate competition.
They had promised they’d be back in time.
They weren’t.
Then at seventeen, I’d been shipped off to my grandmother’s house for birthday weekend while my parents toured Yale with Miles.
“It’s his future, Quinn,” my father had explained, not quite meeting my eyes.
My college graduation had been swallowed whole by Miles’s engagement announcement. What was supposed to be my celebration dinner had turned, within minutes, into a conversation about wedding venues and guest lists, my summa cum laude honors slipping quietly off the table like crumbs.
Just last month, my father had dismissed the Horizon campaign that increased client revenue by forty-one percent.
“It’s just advertising, Quinn,” he’d said, glancing at his watch. “Not like Miles’s work in finance. That’s real impact.”
I picked up my phone and scrolled through my contacts. Family names blurred together. People who had never once called to ask about my accomplishments, my struggles, my life.
An email notification popped onto the screen.
I opened it mechanically, then blinked.
