My family never remembered my birthday. Ethan’s meant a steakhouse booked a month ahead; Chloe’s meant Six Flags and Mom’s Instagram carousel: “Happy birthday to our little princess.” Mine is July 19th, mid-summer—always ignored. On my eighteenth, I woke early, put on makeup, and waited on the couch. Mom passed with Chloe’s dance bag: “Heat your own lunch. I’m taking her to intensive.” Dad left with Ethan to play ball. By noon I was alone. I texted the family chat: “I’m eighteen today! 🎉” Silence. At seven they came home—Ethan’s ribs, Chloe’s mac and cheese. No cake. No candles. No song. Nothing missing, to them. Everyone got a birthday except me. I was eighteen now. I could finally choose where to go.
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