On my birthday back in October, my family collectively gifted me a small white box. I opened it and pulled out a keychain.

“Thank you,” I said sincerely, extricating it from the tissue paper. It was a small bit of plastic shaped like a ticket with the Phantom of the Opera logo on it. I already owned multiple Phantom shirts, posters, mugs, CDs, DVDs, playbills, and signed mask replicas. But I didn’t have a keychain yet — so I was pleased by the gift, albeit puzzled at everyone watching my face.

“Thank you,” I repeated, struggling to affix it to my apartment keys.

“Did you read it?” my sister pressed.

I looked down at it again. The Phantom of the Opera logo. And below it, in small print: 8:00 p.m., January 14, 2023, orchestra row S.

I blinked and shook my head. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Then I burst into tears.

See, I have a lengthy relationship with Andrew Lloyd Webber’s 1988 theatrical masterpiece. My late uncle– a New York-based singer — introduced me to the score when I was 8 or 9 on a road trip between Tucson and San Diego in a sun-bleached Toyota Camry. As we drove across the desert, AC trying and failing to keep us cool, he cranked the volume up until the soundtrack blasted through the grainy speakers, bass rocking the car. He’d pause the CD between tracks to explain the characters, plot, and staging. Meanwhile I sat in the backseat, mesmerized with vivid mental images of glittering chandeliers and misty candlelit basements even though I’d never been to the Paris Opera House. Or France. Or an actual theater.

Every musical theater fan has a story of the moment they fell in love with their first musical, the one that opened their eyes to what theater could be and how it could make them feel. This was mine. Later, there would be Les Miz, Wicked, Company, Hamilton, Guys and Dolls, Little Shop of Horrors, Moulin Rouge, Newsies, so on and so forth. But Phantom was the first.

My love grew with every chance I had to see it live: twice on tour in Tucson (birthday presents), once on Broadway (my high school graduation present) and once on West End (after I graduated college.) When the news broke in September that Phantom would be closing on Broadway after 35 years, I was one of the many, many people who were shocked. It had always seemed like a static landmark of New York. Go see the Statue of Liberty, the Met, and Phantom. I was saddened by the news but resigned. Y’know, that’s showbiz.

Until my birthday rolled around and I sat holding not just a keychain, but a promise that, before it closed, I’d get to see my show one last time.

Fast forward three months, a flight, and a subway ride later, I sat in the orchestra of the Majestic as the lights dimmed and the gavel hit the block with a sharp crack. There is no feeling in the world equivalent to the emotional journey of “Perhaps we may frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little…. illumination. Gentlemen!” with flashes of light as the chandelier rises and sways above your head. DUH. duh duh duh duh DUHHHHH.

It was the best birthday gift. We returned home a week ago, and I’m still basking in that post-show glow where the memories and music are fresh. That will fade, soon, and the show will close in April.

But at least I’ll still have a sick keychain.