It’s her birthday. Your birthday, too. But there are banners with only her name, guests toasting her, an elaborate cake in the shape of her last album’s cover. There’s even a performance scheduled ... your songs, sung by her.

You sit in the background, unacknowledged. No gift, no greeting, no hug.

Your mother, a glamorous and calculating stage mom, flits around with a wine glass in one hand and a phone in the other, managing brand deals and Instagram stories. She’s beaming; this is her star’s special day. If you get a glance, it’s usually with subtle disdain, as if your mere presence risks throwing off the aesthetic.

Your father? He means well. Kind, in a distant way. But he’s clueless. To him, Luna’s success is a happy accident ... something to be proud of, not something to understand.

And Luna?

She sees you.

But she doesn’t say anything.

There’s guilt in her eyes sometimes. Especially when she sings your words, when she takes credit for your lyrics. But the moment she steps into the spotlight and the applause rises, she lets herself forget.