“Of course,” Sarah says immediately. “We’ll make it perfect. Garden party with decorations, games, whatever you want.”
The next four months pass in a blur of planning and anticipation. Sarah and I design invitations, plan a menu, and create decorations. I invite every friend I’ve made at my new school, all eight of them, which feels like a massive improvement over the zero friends I had at my old school where I was too busy studying to socialize.
Richard helps me string lights in the garden and sets up a sound system for music. They’re putting more effort into this party than my parents ever put into, well, anything involving me.
2 weeks before my birthday, I call mom to confirm the plans. “Mom, should I tell Uncle Richard and Sarah what time you’ll be here? Sarah wants to time the cake for when you arrive.”
Another pause. Longer this time. “Oh, sweetheart. About that. Things are a bit complicated right now. Dad’s band has an opportunity to open for a major group and the dates conflict with your birthday weekend.”
My stomach drops, but I force my voice to stay steady. “So, you’ll come afterward.” “Well, we’re trying to work something out. You understand how important this is for us, right? This could change everything.”
I understand that your daughter’s 13th birthday matters less than opening for a band I’ve never heard of, I think. But don’t say. “Sure, Mom. I understand.”
“You’re such a mature girl, Olivia. We raised you, right?” No, I want to tell her. Uncle Richard and Sarah are raising me, right? You abandoned me for your dreams and left other people to handle the messy parts of having a child.
But I just say, “Thanks, Mom. Because what else can I say?”
April 15th arrives with perfect weather, sunny but not too warm, with a gentle breeze that makes the garden decorations dance like they’re celebrating, too. By 2 p.m., all eight of my friends have arrived along with their parents who brought thoughtful gifts and genuine smiles.
I keep checking my phone, waiting for the call or text that will tell me my parents have landed, that they’re on their way, that they kept their promise. Sarah notices me glancing toward the driveway every few minutes and squeezes my shoulder gently.
“They’ll be here,” she says quietly, though I can see the doubt in her eyes.
By 400 p.m., we’ve played all the games, eaten most of the food, and my friends are starting to ask when my parents will arrive. I make excuses. Traffic, delayed flights, work complications. The lies come easily now, probably because I’ve been telling them to myself all day.
“Should we wait to sing happy birthday?” asks Jessica, my closest friend from school. I look at the beautiful cake Sarah and I made together, three layers with strawberry frosting and 13 carefully placed candles.
I think about all the birthdays before this one where my parents barely remembered the date until the last minute where celebration meant a grocery store cake and a hurried song between their rehearsals and meetings. “No,” I say firmly. “Let’s do it now.”
The song is loud and joyful and completely imperfect. And it’s the best birthday singing I’ve ever heard. When I blow out the candles, I don’t wish for my parents to show up. Instead, I wish for the strength to stop waiting for them.
The party ends at 6 p.m. with hugs and promises to hang out soon. My friend’s parents tell me what a lovely time they had, how mature and gracious I am, how lucky Uncle Richard and Sarah are to have me staying with them, staying with them, not living with them, not being raised by them, just staying because everyone still thinks this is temporary.
At 8:00 p.m., I’m helping Sarah clean up the garden when my phone finally rings. Mom’s name flashes on the screen and for a split second my heart leaps again. Maybe they’re here. Maybe they’ll still make it.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart.” Mom’s voice is distant, staticky. “I’m so sorry we missed your party. The schedule got completely crazy and we couldn’t get away.”
I sit down heavily on the garden bench, surrounded by deflated balloons and empty plates. “It’s okay, Mom. Tell me all about it. Did you have fun? Did Sarah take pictures?”
She wants me to make her feel better about missing my birthday. She wants me to absolve her of guilt by describing how wonderful it was without them.
“Yeah, it was great,” I say flatly. “Really great.” “I’m so glad. We’ll make it up to you. I promise. Maybe Christmas or your 14th birthday for sure.”
More promises. More may and probablys and we’ll seize. I’m tired of living in the conditional tense of my parents affection.
“Mom,” I say quietly. “How long has it been since you called?” “Oh, sweetheart. You know how busy we’ve been. Time just flies when you’re working so hard. But we think about you every day.”
6 weeks. It’s been 6 weeks since the last call, and I only know because I’ve been keeping track in my journal like some pathetic accountant of parental neglect.
“I have to go,” I tell her. “Sarah made a special birthday dinner.” “Of course. Give our love to Richard and Sarah. They’re doing such a wonderful job with you.”