At book club, someone says they could not get into the novel because the family was “too specific.” There were too many names, too many customs, a city they had never visited. Five minutes later they praise another novel for speaking to everyone.

At the school meeting, the teacher has a chart showing how your daughter reads. You have brought the novel she keeps under her pillow and the little notes she writes in its margins.

The notebook is open beside the kettle. You have written three lines about a feeling you can’t yet name.

“Tell me about yourself,” the person across from you says. It is a kind question.

The photograph gets forty-seven hearts before breakfast. In it you are laughing, one hand at your throat, face turned toward the person who took it.

Your friend cooks by tasting. You cook by reading the recipe twice before the pan goes on the heat.

At your mother’s birthday dinner, your brother stands to make a speech. He thanks everyone for coming, thanks your aunt for the cake, and thanks the restaurant for finding room for twenty people.

The save-the-date cards have been sent. Your cousin has booked a flight.

There is a cake with a little moon piped in blue icing. Your friend is seven months pregnant, glowing and exhausted in equal measure.

Your friend offers to pay the deposit for the small arts festival you have been planning. You thank her.