My 17-year-old daughter spent three days cooking for 23 people for my mother’s 67th birthday. Ten minutes before the party, Dad texted, “We decided to celebrate at a restaurant instead. Adults only.”

She’s exhausted. She’s 17. She needs to learn that not everything is about her.”

I reminded her Ava had cooked for twenty-three people.

My sister said nobody wanted to be her test subjects.

Those words made my jaw tighten.

She spoke as though my daughter were some laboratory animal.

I disconnected before she finished.

For a moment, I stood motionless, struggling to breathe.

Behind me, Ava was still talking.

She wondered whether her pomegranate glaze was too sweet and if the lighting was too warm. She wanted guests to feel