Waking up always was such a bother. I truly don’t know whether it was the fact that I never wanted to get out of the comforting cocoon of blankets that I had woven myself into or the knowledge that whatever I was going to have to face today, it would be a million times harder to go out and face my family today. Holding back the tears, and being perfect: smiling, happy, helpful, and not even thinking of shedding a tear or feeling jealous, not on this day all for her. 

I tried my best to fend off the plight I found myself facing as I would arise and I don’t know if it was that I actually wanted to wake up and get it over with or the boisterous Mexican family that I had become unaccustomed to while at school. Regardless, I was awake and there was no going back to sleep, no escaping the minefield of tear-inducing reminders of what could have been, what should have been. “You can do this, just smile and always say ‘How can I help’ and most importantly: don’t let them see you cry, not today.” This is what I kept mumbling to myself to remember not to make a scene and not embarrass the family. 

As I reached the stairs to go down and finally start this hellish experience, I felt my stomach begin to turn and felt as though my spirit was about to be crushed by a million boulders. Going down the stairs, one by one, step by step felt like torture. Once I would have finally reached the bottom, once I saw the pink decorations, the dress, the flower arrangements that I made with a huge, fake smile only yesterday, and the other decorations that I made for her and her day, I would reach my breaking point. 

All of the sudden, right before I reached the last step, I heard something. I heard her laughing, and I looked over to see her in awe of the party, in awe of the decorations, and the dress. For a moment I felt happy, happy for her and happy that was her day. But in that happiness grew a jealousy as big as the mar. I felt as though I wanted that happiness, and this day that she was always guaranteed but was a mere legend for me. 

I had dreamed of such a day, when I would turn fifteen, come of age, and would be celebrated for once in my life, instead of forgotten as usual. I dreamed of the day when I would have a big poofy dress, a crown, the tías fussing over me and the party all for me, after having to be responsible for my younger hermanos. I wanted to be at the center indeed of staying on the sidelines, being a supporting character in my own life. 

I had gone back to thinking of how this, this one thing I asked for, after years of trying to honor my family and trying trying to be helpful, yet it was never given to me. Instead, it was given to her, and to my mother and her sisters, and my abuelas and bisabuelas and all of las mujeres in my family and eventually my sister; but never to me, it was never going to be given to me, it was never meant for me. This party, the dress, the decorations, the actual thought was stupid of me to think of in the first place. That’s all it was, a stupid hope, the stupid thought of a dream quinceañera where I was appreciated and celebrated was a mere ludicrous fantasy and would never be anything more, not for me at least. 

For years, I had been told that “Los flojos trabajan dobles” by my bisabuela, abuela and mother, and that if I continued to work hard I would be content. However, I continuously worked twice as hard not out of laziness but to honor my family, to honor their passions and honor their American dreams. It was here, in the cloud of pink in this room full of painful reminders of my brainless fantasy that I would never be enough for them, no matter how much I work, no matter where I go, I would never be deserving enough to have a party like the one she will enjoy. I won’t ever get to wear the perfectly rose-colored gown and twirl in it ever so gracefully; instead, I will wear a suit and sit there to smile and act happy. Rather than getting a last doll, or even a first doll. I will be there, waiting and being cheerful, being the perfect guest, as I wait for a remote dream.