“Well, cheers,” my dad said, leaning down to touch his champagne glass against my water bottle — still cold from the hours I’d worked at the barn in sub-freezing temperatures.
“Thanks,” I sat up from my place tucked into a corner of the couch, disturbing my boyfriend’s dog sleeping at our feet.
“Twenty two,” my dad hummed, gazing absently at the television, “who would have thought you’d make it.”
“Ha, the horses tried,” I joked, inviting a recollection of all the times I’d almost glanced death through a horse’s ears in my sixteen years as a rider. My dad left to finish making dinner. The boyfriend and his dog had to go home. I stood by the front door to see them off and looked into the galaxies of frost curling across the glass.
Who would have thought I’d make it to 22? Honestly, not me.