Emilia’s birthday is this weekend. She will be four years old. Four year olds, she informs me, always have birthday parties.
“So do five year olds. And sixes. I don’t what happens when you get really old, but I hope you still get cake.”
I didn’t tell her that when you’re really old, like, thirty-something, you’re lucky if someone fixes you a bowl of cereal and washes the dishes. No point in rushing the disillusionment.