Let Him Have His Night

The room kept going for my brother. Blue candles bent over his cake, their wax pooling on the frosting. His name sat in the middle in thick white letters, as if no one had asked who else had been born on that day.

My hand was still wrapped around the little present I’d brought. Paper crinkled against my palm.

My mother didn’t even lift her eyes from the cake knife in her hand. She cut the first slice with neat, practiced motions. “You’re older,” she said. “Let your brother have his night.”

I stared at her. “It’s still my birthday.”

My father let out a breath through his nose. He was standing near the sideboard, one hand on the back of a chair, frowning like I had tipped a glass on the floor. “Why do you always have to make things difficult?” he said. “Just let him enjoy this.”

My brother stood beside the cake, looking from one face to the next. The candles flickered in front of him. He didn’t say anything. He only watched.

I looked at the cake again. At the blue frosting. At the one name. At the plate my mother set down in front of him first.

“I’m not making anything difficult,” I said.

My mother finally glanced at me, but only for a second. Then she turned back to the cake. “You are tonight.”

The room went tight around that. The hum of the fridge in the kitchen seemed louder. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard clicked. I could smell sugar, hot wax, and the roast cooling on the counter nobody had touched yet.

I held the wrapped gift up a little higher. It was small enough to fit in one hand. I had picked it out days ago, thinking maybe if I got the right thing, someone would look at me and remember I was here too.

Nobody did.

Something in me moved before I could think better of it.

I stepped forward and slammed the present onto the table. The sound cracked through the room. A fork bounced. My mother’s head snapped up at last.

“I mean nothing to you,” I said, and my voice broke on the last word. I hated that it shook. “Nothing. You don’t even know how to look at me.”

My father straightened. “Watch your mouth.”

“No.” My hands were shaking now, hard enough that I tucked one under my arm. “I’m done.”

My mother’s face hardened. “Don’t start this.”

“I’m leaving.” The words came out fast, almost clean. “You can keep the cake. Keep the party. Keep him.”

My brother’s eyes widened. He stayed where he was, one hand on the chair, the other near the cake stand as if he might steady it.

I grabbed my coat from the back of the chair and shoved it on. When I turned for the hall, one of the chairs scraped back hard behind me. Nobody stopped me. The candles were still burning when I reached the door, my brother standing in their light like a picture someone forgot to finish.

Then I was outside, the cold hitting my face so fast it hurt to breathe.