“During my daughter’s 13th birthday party, my nephew crushed her galaxy cake and shouted, ‘Boring!’ as my dad laughed and my brother smirked. I kept smiling, told them all to leave, and opened my laptop to make a single silent change they’d feel before morning.”
“During my daughter’s 13th birthday party, my nephew crushed her galaxy cake and shouted, ‘Boring!’ as my dad laughed and my brother smirked. I kept smiling, told them all to leave, and opened my laptop to make a single silent change they’d feel before morning.”
By noon I’d picked up the galaxy cake Iris chose herself: midnight blue frosting, tiny sugar stars, and a silver 13 topper. She’d shown me the picture weeks ago with that careful seriousness she gets when she’s trying not to care too much. Iris doesn’t want loud parties; she wants moments that feel like hers.
I’m Naomi, thirty-nine, raising her in a two-bedroom rental in Dayton, Ohio. My parents live close, and my older brother Ethan lives closer—always present, rarely helpful. In our family, I’m the reliable one, the fixer, the one who covers the mess. Ethan’s son Caleb is twelve, raised on laughs instead of limits.
That night my living room was all purple streamers and forced cheer. Iris’s school friends sat politely near her sketchbook, careful with their hands. Caleb bounced from couch to table, tugging decorations, testing what he could get away with. When Iris opened gifts, he scoffed, “That’s it?” and Ethan chuckled like the comment was harmless.
I lit the candles and everyone sang, off-key and loud. Iris leaned forward to make her wish. Caleb reached across the table and slammed his palm into the cake. Frosting jumped, the silver 13 tipped, and he shouted, “Boring!” A couple of adults laughed, and my father even shrugged. Iris didn’t cry. She went still, staring at that ruined galaxy like she’d been erased.
