“I received these third-degree burns exactly fifteen years ago today,” I announced, my amplified voice bouncing off the manicured hedges and echoing across the lawn.

“You were barely one year old at the time, Chloe. It was the middle of the night. Your nursery, situated on the second floor of our old city townhouse, was already consumed by fire.”

I watched from the stage as Chloe’s smug smile began to falter, giving way to confusion. Her friends exchanged nervous, bewildered glances.

My parents, standing frozen at the edge of the patio, suddenly looked as if the ground beneath them had turned to quicksand. Eleanor took a quick step forward, her mouth opening in a silent plea, but my eyes remained locked on the crowd.

“The heavy mahogany door to your room was jammed, the wooden frame warped by the heat by the intense heat,” I continued, projecting my voice to ensure even the catering staff hiding in the back heard every single syllable. “The ceiling above you was collapsing. The smoke was as thick, black, and impossible to breathe through. I was seven years old.”