I remember my 11th birthday like I remember the day my mom got cancer; I don’t. Although, I created an image for what that day could’ve been like and it began with a broken alarm. I woke up with my dad in my face with, what he liked to call his goatee, itching my nose and forehead. His breath smelled of dinner the night before and he was in his Irish boxers. I went downstairs in my favorite denim shorts and leggings and my zebra print customizable Converse and a brown strawberry sat on the counter, half covered in wax from the burning candle. There was a single box on the counter and it was wrapped in a print with Santa and cats gracefully playing together. It was big enough to hold a couple legos in, which sounds horrible if you’re an 11 year old girl, but it’s better than what ended up being in the box. I opened it and inside was a flew with pictures of my house and of my bedroom in center focus. To my dismay, a FOR SALE sign decorated my front lawn in the time it took me to open the box. “Happy Birthday!” I heard my mom shout as she stumbled down the stairs and walk in the room tying her camouflage robe.


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