She doesn’t care—not like she ever does anyways.
She just smiles that fake, polished smile and tells the nail tech exactly how to shapemynails. Howshewants them done.
It’s not like they’re attached tomeor anything. I used to hope she’d see me—truly see me—but she only pays attention when I serve as an extension of her.
The perfect little reflection she’s trying to build out of the pieces she keeps breaking from me.
When I’m done, I stare at my nails like they’re a joke. Perfect squares, neat, baby pink polish gleaming under the lights. Identical to hers.
Instead of feeling pretty or celebrated—I feel sick. Even my fingernails aren’t mine.
It’s supposed to be my birthday present, but it feels more like a leash. Dressed up as a present, though it’s nothing more than a reminder to fall in line.
I’ll be stuck with these nails until they fall off on their own, because taking them off will just make meungrateful.
That’s her favorite word. She spits it out like it’s poison. Proof that no matter what she gives me, I’ll always be the disappointment she never wanted.
The car ride home is mercifully dreadful, the type of silence that feels like you’re walking on thin ice. Move too much—and it’ll crack.
I lean my head against the window, the cold glass numbing the sting on my face while the town lights smear into blurs of color.
I can’t cry. I don’t even want to breathe too hard. Because the second she senses any weakness, she’ll pounce. That’s her thing—my pain ignites her, like it’s feeding something dark she won’t admit is there.
So, I swallow my tears. I press them down until it settles heavy in my chest, a stone lodged where my heart should be.
My reflection stares back at me in the window, eyes hollow, mouth too still, like even she’s tired of pretending. I let the glass take what I can’t say, let it absorb the ache I can’t afford to show.
Happy birthday to me—the girl who learned early how to cry without making a sound.
? ? ?
The tears in my throat almost choke me as we pull into the driveway. Roger’s standing at the front door, holding a bouquet of red roses with a glittery pink banner wrapped around the middle that readsHappy Birthdayin sparkling gold letters.
I can’t help but wonder where my brother is.
Knowing him, he’s probably in his room playing GTA or out with Ron somewhere. He doesn’t usually talk to me much on my birthdays.
Says I get treated better than him—which is crazy, because the only thing Mom does for me these days is buy me a single cheesecake cupcake from Sweetie Treaties.
My so-called birthday parties stopped a long time ago.
Meanwhile, he hasn’t gotten anything for his birthday in the last two years. The last thing he did get was a flip phone he had to pretend he lost when he actually tossed it.
Who buys their kid a flip phone in high school—right before graduation anyways? I’d die from the embarrassment. But honestly, my birthdays aren’t much better.
I get out of the car and make my way to the door, forcing a small polite smile as I take the flowers from Roger. “Thanks,” I whisper, barely audible.
I go straight to my room, set the flowers gently on the floor, and collapse on my bed. I close my eyes, letting the silence settle in. Another birthday, same old story. Just another reminder of how much I hate this day—and most of the time, my life.
Within minutes, I’m drifting off when my door burst open. My mom charges toward me, voice sharp and urgent.“Jainey.”
I jolt upright, meeting her halfway. “What happened?”
“Did you tell Roger thank you? He didn’t have to do what he did. Your own father doesn’t do anything for your birthday—so you better have told him thank you, and I’mnotplaying.” Her tone slices through the air.
She loves to bring him up every time she needs a weapon. Like I give a damn about him. Like his absence stings after all these years. Truth is, I stopped wondering about him a long time ago. You can’t miss someone who never existed past a story. She acts like I should be gratefulfor Roger’s presence, like I should see him as some kind of replacement prize.
But I don’t. And I never will.
