She was in no rush to come and arrived a bit late to the party, but she knew no one cared. Except for her sister and brother-in-law, most of the faces were unknown to her. Their new business endeavor had brought another circle of friends from adjacent fields and shared ambitions. It was expected.

She didn’t bother introducing herself as she stepped into the garden. A nod to the nearest group. A few quick greetings and the usual small talk with the ones she knew. Just enough to pass through.

The setup looked lovely. A long table dressed in matching cloth and dinnerware, small vases with bright flowers, tea candles glowing through colored glass. Above the string lights crossing the garden greenery, the night was young and pleasantly warm.

After working the whole day, she was hungry and craved a cold drink.

A self-serving bar was arranged inside, at the kitchen island. Ice cubes first, a generous pour of gin, then fresh blueberries and halved strawberries, a sprig of rosemary, tonic to fill the glass.

The first sip was a bitter slap. As the fruits began to bleed into it, the next ones softened.

Drink in hand, she looked for a place to settle. The food was not served yet, the seats at the table were still empty. People were scattered in small clusters. Her brother-in-law was busy grilling, surrounded by smoke and the heavy scent of meat.

She spotted a tall chair by the pool, slightly out of place, and dragged it to the wall between two large leafy plants. From there, she could see the whole garden without being in it.

A group on the low sofas spoke loudly enough for the music to fade behind them. The conversation moved with ease through their busy schedules, workouts at dawn, calories and protein counts, meditation practices, and the best tools for content creation. Names and connections were casually dropped into sentences as if they were necessary proof. Ornamented with numbers and price tags, that kind of fluency sounded convincing even when it wasn’t.

Between the nods and wows, everyone seemed intent on basking in the limelight, and she couldn’t tell who was faking, who believed it, and who didn’t.

When the larger themes ran out, they shifted to local commentary. The same certainty, redirected. Many of them had arrived not long ago, yet spoke as if they knew better. The arrogance seeped in, staining even the unbiased facts.

She was an expat too. She could have added her two cents, but she saw no point in comparing it to elsewhere. Living there was her choice. The people, not always. She knew that without roots, circles formed quickly and held loosely. How you ended up among people you wouldn’t have chosen elsewhere, simply because they were there. Proximity as a substitute for belonging. The show in front of her confirmed it.

From where she sat, it all felt staged. Like watching a scene she had no role in.

When she finished her drink, she went to make another. The counter was messier now. As she reached for the tonic, the sweaty bottle slipped, spraying over her dress. The pattern hid most of it, but her fingers stayed sticky.

In the bathroom, she wiped it down with damp paper towels. It would dry.

By the time she returned, food was already being served. She waited off to the side for the line to thin.

Meat was not an option for her. She filled her plate with salad, added a few slices of bread, and some cheese. When she turned back, the table was already full.

“That was quick,” she thought, scanning for space. There was one empty seat, but the people around it made the choice easy.

Her earlier spot wouldn’t work for eating. She went inside and sat at the kitchen island. The whole space to herself. The softened table murmur barely reached her there.

She looked down at her plate. A rhapsody of colors: green lettuce, yellow avocado, purple cabbage, white onion, orange carrot, tiny black dots of chia seeds—and small flashes of dark red.

Cranberries. Dried.

Their color complemented the palette nicely, but they didn’t belong there. Not to her. Too sweet, too separate. A decorative interruption.

Still, she had to admit that at least they were honest, unlike raisins with their deceptive resemblance to chocolate chunks. Cranberries didn’t pretend. They were exactly what they claimed to be.


She ate slowly, picking out the intruders and piling them to the side. A question lingered between the bites: in a salad like this, would she rather be the carrot or the cranberry? An integral part, or something added for effect.

It wasn’t that she had never felt like an impostor. But she had never cared enough to stay where she felt she didn’t fit.



With her finger, she gathered the last seeds from the plate, rinsed the salty aftertaste with a sip of her drink, and reached for the cranberries.

On their own, they were hitting the right note.

“That’s how you should be,” she said quietly. “A dessert.”

She held the thought for a moment, then smiled.

She left the plate in the sink, refreshed her drink, and stepped back outside, just in time for the birthday cake.

That part, she liked.