Chapter 20 - Juniper’s Birthday the Next Year
Juniper turned eight.
She did not want a party.
“Dinner.”
“Where?”
“Home.”
“Who?”
“Molly. Grandma. Uncle James. Two friends.”
“Cake?”
She went quiet.
I did not push.
Then:
“Cupcakes.”
Fine.
Six chocolate cupcakes.
No elaborate cake.
No photographers.
No event company.
I almost overcorrected.
No decorations?
Juniper asked:
“Can have balloons?”
Of course.
Trauma does not require austerity.
We had lavender and yellow balloons.
Dinner.
Pizza.
One magician? No.
Too much.
Board game.
Her friends slept over.
At dessert, Juniper stared at cupcakes.
Then took one.
Put frosting on Molly’s nose.
Everyone froze.
Juniper laughed.
Molly looked at me.
“Permission to retaliate?”
I looked at Juniper.
She nodded.
Molly tapped frosting onto her cheek.
Juniper laughed harder.
There.
Same substance.
Different meaning.
Consent.
Shared joke.
Power equal enough.
I did not turn the moment into a speech.
Later Dr. Morris asked if it felt significant.
“Yes.”
“For Juniper?”
“I don’t know.”
“Good.”
Not every recovery moment belongs to therapist interpretation.
May you like
Sometimes frosting is frosting again.
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