One Single Birthday Cake

“H appy Birthday to you happy birthday to you…!” my family choruses as they present me with a creamy bakery birthday cake.

They set it down on the table in front of me, and the frosting looks up to meet the expected glint in my eye and gleeful smile. But when I look up into the mirror in our dining room, the smile is strained, and my eyes carry no excitement. I glance back down at the cake: A curlicue of cream announces my age. I slip the knife through the softness and can’t hold back the slight grimace.

I don’t want to thwart the efforts to make me feel good on my birthday. And really, what did I want my family to do — ignore my birthday entirely? Not buy a cake and thus abandon family tradition? That would feel even worse.

I pass the first plate to my father. To my father, not my husband. Because I don’t have a husband. Yet. (That last word is there for my father; he would put it in if I didn’t.) I really wish I could be sharing this birthday cake with my husband. Just the two of us. In our own apartment. We would slice off just two pieces and eat leisurely, sharing a joke…