This year my parents forgot my birthday for the fifth time in a row. I thought I had gotten used to it by now, until two weeks later they threw my sister a huge party and gave her a brand-new car. That was the final straw for me.
When I decided to cut them off, I expected some backlash, but I was not prepared for the insane chain of events that followed.
It all started with my twenty-third birthday. By now, I should have known better than to expect anything from my parents.
For the last four years, they had completely forgotten my birthday. No calls, no texts, not even a half-hearted “Oh, we thought it was next week” excuse.
Each time it happened, I told myself it did not matter, that I did not need the validation.
But deep down, every year I hoped it would be different. This year was no exception. I spent the day pretending it was just another Tuesday.
I went to work, answered emails, and sat through meetings where I barely heard a word anyone said.
My phone sat next to me on my desk, its screen glaringly blank every time I glanced at it. As the hours ticked by, that tiny sliver of hope I had been clinging to began to wither.
By the time I got home that evening, I had resigned myself to another birthday spent alone. My friends at work had surprised me with a cupcake and a candle during lunch, which was sweet, but it was not the same.
After dinner, I poured myself a glass of wine, sat on the couch, and stared at my silent phone.
I told myself I should not be surprised. This was just who my parents were. Two weeks later, Emma turned sixteen.
The difference between her birthday and mine was like night and day.
My parents went all out, booking a private room at a fancy restaurant and inviting dozens of family members and friends. They even hired a photographer to capture the evening.
I was not planning to go at first. After being forgotten yet again, the last thing I wanted was to sit through a celebration that would only remind me of how little I mattered to them.
But Emma called me the night before, practically begging me to come.
“Please, it would mean so much to me,” she said. Emma and I had always been close despite the glaring favoritism from our parents. It was not her fault they treated her like the golden child, and I did not want to take my frustration out on her.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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