For three years, Audrey’s parents claimed they couldn’t afford birthday gifts for her, while her younger sister received $50 every year. On the day after her 17th birthday, Audrey walked into a family gathering with a cake, only to discover a shocking secret that changed everything.
I stared at my phone. My mom’s text was short and to the point:
“We can’t afford to get you a gift this year. Sorry, honey.”
I didn’t cry. Honestly, I wasn’t even surprised. It’s been the same for three years now. No gifts for me, no special treatment. But my sister, Lily? She always gets something. Every year, on her birthday, they give her $50 like it’s no big deal. Me? I get a text.
I remember when it started. On my 15th birthday, Mom and Dad told me they couldn’t afford to get me anything because things were tight.
I understood then, but it stung more when Lily’s birthday came two months later, and they somehow found the money for her. They smiled, laughed, and acted like nothing was wrong.
But something was wrong. It wasn’t just the gifts. It was everything. When I tried to talk to them, they’d brush me off. I’d try to join them in the living room, but they’d just focus on Lily. Every time. I kept thinking maybe I’d done something wrong, but I never figured out what.
The only people who truly cared about me were my grandparents. They always got me little special gifts and took me out on my birthdays.
This year, though… this was it. This was the year I couldn’t take it anymore. I wasn’t angry about the presents. I just wanted them to see me.
My birthday came and went yesterday. No cake, no presents, not even a card. Mom and Dad were “busy” again. I spent the evening at my parent’s by myself, watching Lily get ready for her own birthday today. She’s turning 14. She didn’t even say anything about my birthday. It was just like any other day to her.
This morning, I got another text from Mom.
“We’ll be home at 3. Bring that cake you usually make.”
Yeah, that’s another thing. Every year, I bake a chocolate cake the day after my birthday. I bring it over to my parents’ house, and we all pretend it’s for Lily. But it’s the only way I feel like I’m part of something.
I sighed, staring at the half-finished cake on the counter. The kitchen smelled like cocoa and vanilla. I wasn’t even sure why I was still doing this, but old habits die hard, I guess. Part of me wanted to just throw the cake away and not go over. But the other part of me — the part that still hoped for something different — kept working.
“I don’t need gifts,” I whispered to myself as I spread the frosting. “I just need them to care.”
That’s all I ever wanted. Not the money, not the things. I wanted their attention, their love. I wanted them to ask me how my day was, or if I was okay. I wanted to feel like I mattered.
I looked at the cake, and it felt like a metaphor for my life. Something I’d put all this effort into, but for what? Would anyone even notice?
By the time I finished, I was exhausted. Physically and emotionally. The cake sat there, perfect and untouched, while I stood there, torn between anger and sadness.
I received a call from Lily. “Hey, Mom says we’re gonna eat around four, so don’t be late. And bring that cake. She’s been talking about it all morning.”
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