The alarm went off at 7:00 AM. I stared at the ceiling, feeling that familiar, heavy dread settle in my stomach. Today was the day. It was the day I turned twenty-five. It was also the day my brother, Alex, had been dead for exactly five years.
My twin brother died in a car accident five years ago. Since that rainy Tuesday, our birthday had ceased to be a celebration. It had become an annual memorial service.
I walked downstairs. The house was quiet, curtains drawn. My mother was already dressed in black, clutching a framed photo of Alex—the one where he was the captain of the football team. My father was putting on his coat, his face set in a grim line of endurance.
They looked at me as I entered the kitchen. There was no warmth in their eyes, only a flicker of pain, as if looking at my face—which was identical to his—was a cruel reminder of what they had lost.
“We’re heading out,” my dad mumbled, grabbing the car keys.
“Okay,” I said, my voice small. “Be safe.”
They didn’t ask if I wanted to come. They knew I couldn’t bear the cemetery on this day. But worse, they didn’t acknowledge why I might want to stay.
Every year on our birthday, my parents visit his grave and spend the day weeping. They pour all their love, all their attention, and all their grief into the dirt six feet above his coffin. There is nothing left over for the son standing in the kitchen.
They don’t buy me a cake. There are no cards on the counter. They don’t say ‘Happy Birthday’. To say those words would be to admit that time has moved on, that life has continued, and they weren’t ready to admit that.
The door clicked shut. I was alone. Again.
I walked to the mirror in the hallway. I looked like him. I sounded like him. But I wasn’t him. To them, the day is only about the son they lost, not the one who survived. I was just the spare tire, the reminder of the tragedy, the wrong twin.
I couldn’t stay in the quiet house. It felt haunted, not by Alex, but by the silence of my living parents.
I grabbed my wallet and keys. I drove to the grocery store three towns over, where no one knew me, where no one would give me the pitying “how are your parents holding up?” look.
I walked to the bakery section. I stared at the display case. Chocolate, vanilla, strawberry. I pointed to a small, round cake with blue frosting and rainbow sprinkles. It looked childish. It looked joyful. It looked like everything my life wasn’t.
“Writing on it?” the baker asked.
“No,” I said. “Just the cake.”
I took it back to my car and sat in the parking lot, the engine idling to keep the heater running. I peeled off the plastic lid. I didn’t have a fork, so I used my fingers, scooping up a chunk of blue frosting.
This year, I bought my own cake and ate it alone in my car.
It tasted like sugar and chemicals and loneliness. I took a bite, tears finally spilling over and dripping onto my steering wheel. I whispered, “Happy Birthday, me.”
I ate until I felt sick. I ate for Alex, who would have loved the sprinkles. And I ate for myself, feeding the part of me that was starving for acknowledgement. My parents were at a graveyard mourning the dead, but I was in a parking lot, fighting like hell to convince myself that I was still worthy of being alive.
