birthday 1/4
She went out of her room to go to the kitchen after hearing her mom calling. As she entered, she saw that it was full of people. “Surprise!” they yelled.
She saw there standing: her mom, who had organized everything, shifting her weight from one leg to the other; her dad, still in his dirty work clothes and already a couple of beers in; and the people they were able to gather.
There it was: family friends she never said more than five words to; two neighbors who were forty years older than her; two close family members; three kids who she never talked to but went to her school; a distant cousin that she saw once a year; and two friends her age.
A chocolate cake was brought from the fridge, bought from a supermarket nearby in the morning, with the original box and a 50% discount sticker on top of it, and put on the table. Her mom got two candles and pierced the cake: one candle was tilting and the other took two attempts to stay up.
As the guests began to sing, she stood there, wishing she were a piece of furniture, scanning the room face by face, seeing their eyes divert when they met hers — except her mother’s, who raised her eyebrows and smiled at her — hearing each clap offbeat, each voice out of tune, each person mumbling forgotten lyrics, until her name came, and they all clapped and she forced a smile and a faint thank you.
Then came the gifts.
The big one came from her dad, given to her after a stumbling walk that almost tipped a chair over, accompanied by a big smile and a slurred but proud: “This is for you, 50 euros.”
The remaining guests searched for money in their pockets, as if they were looking for change to pay for gas, and put it on top of the table in a pile: a grand total of 103 euros, pocket lint and a small empty plastic wrapper, which her mother quickly removed from the pile.
Her mom announced that it was time to cut the cake. She pulled the drawer to find a boning knife and started to cut each slice evenly with great focus — each a different shape and size than the last one.
There was nothing more planned.
She and her two friends escaped the kitchen and sat outside in silence.
Their silence was broken when one of them said how each birthday was a countdown to finally be free. When they would be eighteen, they would be able to do whatever they wanted. They played with all the ideas of who they could be. They would study medicine, engineering, or law; wake up whenever they wanted and spend mornings watching their favourite shows in bed; be able to earn and spend money in whatever way they wanted.
Two hours later, everyone left and she went alone for a walk in the woods as she felt she still had time before the sunset.
As she walked, the sun continuously blinded her, appearing and disappearing between the trees; she could hear the leaves rattling and the soft sound of her footsteps as they were muffled by the layers of loose dirt on the road.
The image of her parents standing there in the kitchen came to her and the pride they took in having put this together. She remembered the way her friends did not look at her when they were in the kitchen.
She kept thinking about money as a gift. She wished to have received a worthless bracelet stolen from the trash, but chosen for her.
She started walking faster, as if she were late for something. The sun was now blinding her constantly and her footsteps stamped the ground and echoed.
She sat on the ground: why didn’t they remove the sticker from the box? How could her mother not see how poorly cut the cake was? What else did they not see? She remembered when they stopped being able to help with her homework; when she had to go to the school office to get help filling out an application form. She no longer felt she could trust them, but knew she did not know any better. All the things she said she would do when eighteen felt impossible.
She got up and started going home.