From a very young age I learned that birthdays are unimportant. My mom doesn’t like to talk about my birthday because her’s is 4 days after mine - it makes her feel old. My eighth birthday was the first one she forgot.
I woke up that morning in January and felt a rush go through my body; I was finally eight and it was a snow day. I couldn’t believe it! I was so excited. I wondered if my mom had made me a cake, she knew that I loved chocolate. I walked out of my room with a bounce in my step ready to get a cup of hot chocolate so that I could drop the eighth marshmallow that I was entitled to into my mug. This was a family tradition: you get marshmallows based on your age. I sat and sipped on my hot chocolate, pretending I was 28 and drinking my black coffee. No one was awake when I was done with my drink and that kind of surprised me, so I began to make my own breakfast - I was starving.
Eventually, after I had already eaten all of the food I made, my mom and her boyfriend woke up and greeted me with mumbles on their way to the coffee pot. This did not surprise me, neither one of them can stand mornings. They can’t function without a few cups of coffee first thing. Therefore, I gave them time to wake up - I could tell they needed it.
Another hour or two went by, and they still sat on the sofa watching television, paying no mind to me. Whenever I would walk down the hallway towards the living room they would tell me to go do my homework before I had even reached the end of the hall. I had stayed up past my bedtime the night before to do it all, so I could spend time with them on my special day.
A few more hours went by and they still had little interest in me and what I was doing, so I went outside to play in the snow. I was out there by myself for at least an hour because I loved how the snow would frost my fingers over, making them feel numb. Then, my neighbors, also my best friends at the time, came outside to greet me. They had a chocolate cupcake made for me with a candle.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY,” they cried with toothless smiles across their faces. I was so happy, at least someone remembered.
I played with them on their swings for about an hour until the sunset began, then I went inside and asked my mom if my dad had called.
“No, he does not want to be a part of your life right now,” she replied. I stormed into my room and cried; I missed my dad, even though he forgot my birthday too (I later found this to be a lie. He had called several times and my mother told him to leave me alone - that he was not allowed to be a part of my life). That’s when I realized that birthdays are unimportant - they are just another day of the year that no one really cares about.
Eventually, the moon began to rise, and it was dinner time. My mom’s boyfriend had promised to cook steak for my birthday, but I could smell the crisping chicken in the oven. That is when I completely gave up hope. I was done waiting for them to say something about my birthday, they had clearly forgotten.
Over dinner I said “You know I turned eight today,” with a frog in my throat from the tears that were building behind my eyes.
They looked shocked, and my mom replied, with a lie, “I know, happy birthday.”
