The text from my father sat on top of the lock screen, right above the little faded magnet of the American flag on my fridge. Don’t expect anyone to show. Outside, a couple of kids were riding bikes with tiny flags taped to the handlebars, the kind you get free from the hardware store every July.
The late-September heat in Jackson, Mississippi, still felt like summer clinging to the pavement, and my living room smelled like lemon cleaner and the vanilla candle I’d bought just for tonight.
Thirty-eight helium balloons bobbed against the ceiling. Place cards with everyone’s names lined the dining table I’d rented.
My mom. My dad.
My brother, Michael.
My aunt Linda. There were roasted vegetables warming in the oven, iced tea sweating in a pitcher, and a cake from a bakery downtown with “Happy Birthday, Chelsea” written in looping blue script. Don’t expect anyone to show.
I stared at the message until the letters blurred.
Then my phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn’t a text.
It was a notification from social media. My thumb opened it before my brain could catch up.
A new post sat at the top of my feed, bright and loud and impossible to ignore.
My family’s faces filled the screen. My mother in oversized sunglasses. My dad in a polo he only pulled out for “special occasions.” Michael with his perfect, rehearsed grin.
Aunt Linda with a cocktail the color of a traffic cone.
Location tag: Miami Beach. Caption: “Finally together!”
The group photo glowed from my phone, the ocean a perfect turquoise behind them, like the universe had hired a filter to make sure the memory looked flawless.
I wasn’t in it. I wasn’t even a shadow on the sand.
I leaned against the counter, the edge digging into my back, my hands starting to shake.
A fork rattled in the drying rack. Somewhere outside, a neighbor’s TV blared the national anthem muffled through the wall. My birthday dinner sat in my apartment, every chair waiting, while my family raised glasses without me three states away.
They hadn’t just skipped my birthday.
They’d erased me from the family photo. My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
For a second, the old version of me tried to wake up—the girl who made excuses for them, who would send some cheerful text about “maybe another time.” That version of me was tired. She had been since I was twelve.
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