I’ve always been oddly independent. My mother would joke she could leave me with nothing but the house and the money to pay maintenance bills and I’d thrive. She was never wrong. And I never minded, instead I loved it. Growing up with two brothers and a sister built in me a treasuring of simply being alone. And when my brother (about eight years older than I) was old enough to leave home, brave the liberties of adulthood in solidarity, I revered the stories he brought back with him. In living on his own, he could eat the foods forbidden from our kitchen, my favorites of watermelon sour patch gummies or Captain Crunch cereal. He could bask in the glory of infinite sleepovers, even spend entire evenings binging movies if he wished without mom knocking on his door and beating him with Russian curse words and her blanket. Mom could only scold from the phone, which is too easily bearable, even ignorable, and going into his bare room at the end of the hall without knocking doesn’t make him that mad when he doesn’t know (which used to be the whole point). He would come home only when he wanted to, when after just a few hours, he would whisper to me “I’m reminded why I left.” I never wondered why he left so suddenly, why he so rarely returned, and my parents missed him for that, so they scolded him even less. Us children, we all knew, and we all waited till the moments we ourselves would be lucky enough to embrace independence. 

Independence in its fully unaltered glory would welcomingly test me this year. My mother was invited to a wedding in Israel. If there was one place my mother could never resist going, it was Israel. Not even the day-long roundtrip swayed her elation. Her only worry was the date, that conveniently sat itself amidst the first week of school, which also happens to include my birthday. 

People always say they have the worst birthday, but no one can compete with bringing cupcakes for class to be the single one celebrating. No one expects their friend’s birthday as they unpack their new school supplies into their new carpeted locker (yes, girls carpeted their lockers), as they whisper of summer glow-ups, and intently check room numbers with paralyzing fear of getting one wrong. I never had my locker decorated or wrapped for my birthday, or got run over by screams of ‘happy birthday’ before even stepping into the school. My birthday was more often marked by a midday, ‘wait, is it your birthday today?’ I always said I didn’t mind these little slip ups, at the end of the day, people still wished me a happy birthday. But as hard as I tried to ignore them, there were hints of tears and frustrated hyperventalizing cries that I hushed deeply down from behind my cheeks into my stomach. I smiled and that smile distracted them from the discoloration of my face, the redness of the whites in my eyes. Why didn’t I just say something? Waiting for that moment of ‘wait, is it your birthday’ was better than resenting the hidden whispers of ‘wow, we get it, it’s your birthday.’ I feared that the most. And in some awful way, after a while of these types of birthdays, I came to enjoy these sudden realizations. It became a sort of game to me, who would be the first to point it out? This game formed the way in which I celebrated birthdays at school, trailing each contestant, until sometime around midday, a victor would arise. Apart from one year’s slip up when a girl in my grade –I’ll say I wasn’t particularly fond of– was the one to win my little competition, and that kind of hurt. But otherwise, this sort of routine would work out. And besides, I would always have my family to return to. They always remembered. I would wake up too early in the morning for my eyes to see properly, and lie in bed with my mind scrambling excitedly. A week of waiting and I could finally wear my favorite clothes of the year that I had stashed aside for the first day of the new one. I could imagine myself sliding down the railings of the steps (however I am frighteningly clumsy) while skipping down the polished wood in slippery socks, a release for my thrilled heart. The momentum slid me across the floor and into the kitchen where balloons and the well over-used decorations my mother took out for each of our birthdays hung from places and hanging lights on the ceiling. Freshly cooked chocolate chip waffles or pancakes steamed the air and waited for Lingonberry jam (which we used heavily in the place of syrup). A fresh vase of flowers would stand on the counter holding up a card of confusing cursive in a long note that when summed up read, “I’m proud of you, Love Mom.” She would always add, ‘and Dad’, at the end as if I couldn’t tell he himself had never looked at it. 

These were earlier birthdays of earlier years when I still had toy presents I begged for and braids I waited impatiently for but couldn’t do myself. As the years went by, I could braid my own hair better than my mother could even try. She would ask me what present and I wouldn’t know what to tell her. The tuition for my school down to the clothes on my back and the roof above my head, is already more than enough– which she often reminded me in frustration. The decorations retired, yet, even if it wasn’t pancakes and waffles, my mother would always leave something interrupting my string of skipped breakfasts, accompanying that card on the counter and the flowers that gloriously framed it.

I failed to think about it this way before. I was too excited for my impending independence. My mother left for Israel and I ran down the stairs without slippery socks. Not because it was my birthday but because I was late for school, late to make my little brother’s breakfast. My father had left a card and packaged flowers, the message authored by Hallmark was signed, ‘Love, Dad.” I, myself, skipped breakfast and left for school, carpooling with my neighbors. The day had flown by, the competition a success as the realization occured to a close friend before the looming could’ve-been-awkward lunchtime. I didn’t care too much for the day because the night I solely planned beckoned me. 

My mother was the one to always make sure our birthdays were celebrated. All activities for the night were canceled and the family would gather to enjoy a meal of the birthday girl or boy’s favorite food. I had called the sushi place while waiting for my aunt to pick me up from school. The night before I had ordered a cookie cake from Wegmans. The lady on the phone walked me through the order. What is your name, your contact number, read dryly from a memorized script. She offered the colors and the design. I picked white, blue, and purple of piped flowers. Then she asked for the message. I told her I wanted it to say ‘Happy Birthday Nori,’ at which point she had realized the name for my order was identical to the name addressed on the cake. I could hear her pause for a moment before repeating the message back to me. How pathetic of me. You see the movies of the old loaners in the first few scenes celebrating their own birthdays with self-ordered cakes. That was me. How pathetic. And I wasn’t even that old, middle school isn’t that old. Right? I told her the message was fine and finished up the order, hung up from the phone. Those same tears came again, they tinged from behind my cheeks and pressed up against my throat. I took a long hard swallow. Back to the depths of my stomach. I smiled. This too had been funny to me, after all, wasn’t this independence at its finest?

My aunt and I stopped by Wegmans for the cake, then by the sushi restaurant for the food. I came home, threw my backpack down and quickly set the table with extra chairs, filled it with unpackaged food, and hid the cake around the corner, behind the wall of the kitchen, just as my mother would have done. Not long after, my dad returned home, followed by my brother, my cousin, my grandparents, all invited by my own insistent texts. They each congratulated me, patted me on the back of yet another year. I hugged each of them tightly over their shoulders. They took their places at the table and the dinner began. I dug quietly into my favorite shrimp and cucumber roll while they yelled loudly over one another speaking about I don’t remember what. I’m sure it wasn’t that loud, but in Russian, everything sounds loud. I think at one point they talked about my grandparent’s daycare. I laughed at my aunt’s jokes. They, as custom, mocked my cousin, too old to not have a boyfriend. We talked about my brother and his business ventures he bragged to everyone about– but still failed to venture. My dad stood up for a moment amidst the chatter and raised his glass to me. We all clinked plastic cups. Everyone had emptied their plates, and after my mother, I am programmed to clear such things from the table. All that remained were half empty wine bottles, unfinished cups, and used napkins. 

It was time for dessert. So as they screamed and cackled (or what sounded as screams and cackles), I retreated behind the wall of the kitchen to get the cookie cake. I unpackaged it and put the candles in, careful to not puncture the letters of the message I had ordered. We didn’t have enough for my age that year (I don’t even remember what age that was). I took the matches out from the cabinet and entered the kitchen. Those pathetic tears came again, knocking against the back of my cheeks and pounding on my brain. They wanted to show everyone what they looked like but I didn’t want them too. I was embarrassed. I loved those people sitting there in front of me, I didn’t want them to see they hurt me. So they didn’t, and just a single tear made its way through. I stepped back, worried it would ruin the frosting before the wax of melted candles would. My older brother, the independent one, was the first to notice. He touched me on the shoulder and asked if he could light the candles instead. I nodded, terrified that if I tried to form words, they would come out mangled in tears. I went to turn off the lights and sat at my place at the table. Everyone watched me now, smiling proudly, they all had a hand in my growth. Look at me. How independent. 

My brother began the chorus and everyone around the table joined, ‘happy birthday to you…’ The feeling came back. Harder this time. It beat against the weak bars of my face, breaking loose, bringing with it hysteric cries yelped from my throat. They asked me why I cried and I told them I was happy. This was true, I was happy. I had tried my best to embrace the full unfethered independence that mocked me, and in the end, (as I was suprised I had appreciated) my family had stopped me. It could’ve been earlier, but now was not the time to blame them for that. I was officially a year older, minus one year from the countdown till the days when I would be, even expected, actually independent. No test for that time. What I thought I had wanted all along. True independence. I didn’t really want it the same way I did before anymore. I didn’t want to be the old sad person in the beginning of those movies that lights their own single candle on their single cupcake and blows it out without a wish. Most of all, at that moment, I wanted my mom. The person that I had been excited to not be there, I needed her back. I blew the flames out, eyes shut tightly, while picturing her. It was she alone who had made not only mine, but all the birthdays of all of my siblings, not only special, but a reality. I felt as though she had been cheated, by her own family, that she still waited for to save her from full independence. Or maybe she has stopped waiting, for after so long, it is what she expects, what she plans for.

It was her own birthday a few weeks ago, somewhere in the forties. She had ordered the meal we enjoyed, carried herself throughout the day as if it was any typical day. She cared for all of her kids, even the independent older one. She made their meals, washed their dishes, cleaned after their messes, down to making us tea as we enjoyed her birthday cake, that I only now realise I’m sure she has many times ordered herself. She never seemed to mind. I would try trailing behind her through the day, doing the chores she insisted were unskippable, even that single day a year, but often she would slip through my fingers and I’d find her caring for us instead, all over again. I hadn’t understood why she didn’t get those tears I had. Maybe she had gotten too good at swallowing them back, which I still needed practice at. But that night, she gave a toast. A long toast at that, but a toast to the reason why she celebrates her birthday in this independent way. Scratch that, beyond independent. Like her birthday has lost its meaning as her own. She celebrates it in caring for us. She turned to each of her four pride and joys, laughing at the grueling pregnant months, days that led up to our births, and the ones that followed. My oldest brother was the first, the scariest, my older sister the simplest. My younger brother was evidence of their expertise. She looked at me and told me I grew the fastest. I was the easiest to nuture into, well, independence. 

Maybe I already had enough of the independence I so longed for, the kind my brother now claimed to greatly enjoy. And as I’m sure I will too enjoy it in its full unfethered glory in time, for now, I bask in the care of my mother, ironically under her own motherly independence. And maybe, one day, I can be like her.