Chapter Three
Happy Birthday
I
t’s my sixteenth birthday, and my mom surprised me with a trip to the nail salon.
Imagine that—sixteen years old, and this is the first time I’m going to the salon.
My stomach flutters anyway, butterflies smacking against my ribs like they can’t find a way to get out.
She never does stuff like this for me. Ever.
Usually, it’s the same tired excuse; it’s too expensive for a single mom blah blah. I mean what’s the point in having a boyfriend with money if he isn’t going to give you any? But I swallow the words I really want to say, because pushing her never ends well.
But today, I let myself believe this might mean something. Maybe this is her turning point. Maybe pigs really do fly.
We sit side by side, drills buzzing while dust flies in the air, and for a minute it almost feels natural. Like maybe we’re that cliché mother-daughter duo that you see laughing and bonding like best friends.
I even let myself daydream—what if this becomes our thing? Our little tradition. Girls’ days every few weeks. Her and I, side by side, choosing colors, giggling like we’re the Gilmore Girls.
A girl can hope. Or delude herself.
Same thing.
She goes first, of course. She always knows exactly what she wants—usually bright colors, squared tips, gel over her natural nails. I sit indecisive, but mostly careful. It’s my birthday, but God forbid I ask for something that she thinks is too much.
I love nails with bling and glitter but asking for too much with her is basically asking for war. And I’m not starting World War III in a salon chair on my birthday
. So instead, I pull out my phone and record. I capture everything—the drills, the chatter, her actually looking like she’s enjoying herself. Because deep down I know I’ll need it later.
Proof that she can act like a mom when she feels like it. Proof that maybe I’m not a complete disappointment.
Her face softens, her eyes light up, and I almost let myself feel it—warmth.
“You were such a white baby—like a piece of paper with super dark curly hair. I didn’t even know whose baby they were trying to hand me.
” She laughs like it’s a joke. “I wanted you to be a dark chocolate baby, with dark curly hair. I just knew you were going to be my cute little chocolate drop.”
Her words hit me straight to the core. I stop the recording quick—no way am I saving that memory. Just my fucking luck, I came out the wrong shade and ruined her big dreams.
Sorry I wasn’t the chocolate-drop doll you pre-ordered, Mom. My bad. If it were up to me I would’ve picked different parents, but apparently, we don’t get that option in life.
I sit silently, while she keeps talking about the baby she wish she had—like I’m not sitting next to her breathing the same fucking air.
Every word she says feels like another reminder that I’m another mistake she’ll never get over.
I stare at the floor, trying to blink the sting out of my eyes, but it doesn’t help.
It’s crazy how one comment can crawl under your skin and make you wish you could peel yourself out of your own body just to stop feeling it.
When it’s my turn, I sink into the chair, drowning out the shuffle of strangers. If she noticed I’ve shut down, she doesn’t ask.
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 shape my nails. How she wants them done.
It’s not like they’re attached to me or 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 me ungrateful.
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 reads Happy Birthday in 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’m not playing.” 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 grateful for Roger’s presence, like I should see him as some kind of replacement prize.
But I don’t. And I never will.
“Yes—yeah, I did. I said thank you when I got them from him at the door.”
“Yeah, okay… Roger!” she yells, turning her head toward the hallway just to make sure he hears her. The damn birds outside probably hear her too.
Seconds later, Roger appears at my doorway, standing like the floor’s lava and he’s not sure where it’s safe to step.
“Did she tell you thank you? Because I didn’t hear it.”
“Yeah,” he answers, clearly caught off guard. “She said thank you when she walked through the door.”
“Mmhmm.” She scans my room, eyes narrowing like she’s hunting for something else to attack.
“And clean up this room—you’re fucking embarrassing. I’m trying to get this man to buy us a house, and if he thinks shit’s always gonna look like this, that’ll never happen.”
Lucky for her, I don’t plan on being here when that time comes.
She leans in close, lowering her voice so only I can hear. “Get your shit together before you get left the fuck out.”
She storms out, slamming my door behind her. The silence that follows just pisses me off even more. I glare at the doorway, a mix of anger and pure exhaustion dragging through my whole body.
Somehow, she always find a new, creative way to blame me for something.
I just hope Roger doesn’t think this little performance means I’m about to start calling him Dad anytime soon. He’s just her fucking puppet—a wallet with a pulse.
I’d probably have a little more respect for him if he actually spoke up for himself once in a while. But he doesn’t. He just stands there and takes it, doing whatever she says like his spine’s on vacation.
The man practically jumps when she says jump. I can’t help but wonder if he’ll still be hopping around once she’s drained every cent out of him. Maybe then he’ll finally realize she’s not a woman in love—she’s a manipulator who found her next payday.
I lay back on my bed, staring at the ceiling, my stomach twisting in knots I’ve stopped trying to untangle.
Same house.
Same games.
Same bullshit.
Just another reminder that around here, love always comes with a price tag—and she’s the only one cashing in.