You Ignored My Birthday So I Erased Myself From The Family novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: Eighteen
On her eighteenth birthday nobody says a word, so Chloe sets her house key on the dinner table and walks out in front of her whole family.
I turned eighteen on a Saturday, and I spent it making pot roast for people who did not know.
I got up at six.
Penelope had Regionals in six weeks, and Mom had decided the whole house needed a send-off dinner.
So I peeled eleven pounds of potatoes before the sun came up.
Nobody came downstairs to see what I was doing.
Nobody ever did.
At seven I ironed Chase's good shirt, because he had big news to announce at dinner.
At eight I drove Penelope to the rink, since Dad had a golf game and Mom had a pedicure.
Penelope slept against the car window the whole way.
She did not say good morning.
I waited for her to say happy birthday, and then I stopped waiting.
At noon I walked back into the kitchen and found a sticky note on the counter.
It said, "Chloe, please do the good tablecloth. Love, Mom."
It had a smiley face on it.
I looked at that smiley face for a long time.
By six o'clock the table was set for five, with candles, cloth napkins and a roast that had taken me all day.
My family sat down.
Dad carved.
Mom poured sparkling cider into the good glasses.
Chase sat at the head of the table, because Dad had given him that seat the day he turned twenty-one.
"Before we eat," Dad said, "a toast to our Penelope."
He lifted his glass.
"Regionals, then Nationals. We are so proud of you, kiddo."
Penelope blushed and said, "Dad, stop."
Everyone laughed.
I lifted my glass too, because I am the kind of person who lifts the glass.
Then Mom clapped her hands.
"And now, Chase's surprise!"
Chase slid a small box across the cloth to himself.
He opened it.
A set of truck keys lay inside, with a little silver tag shaped like a taco.
"Dad and I finished the title paperwork this week," Chase said. "The food truck is officially mine. Carroway Eats is happening."
Mom screamed and hugged him.
Dad shook his hand across the roast.
Penelope whooped.
Nobody had asked me to help pick out the napkins, and nobody had asked me anything about this.
I set my glass down.
"Mom," I said. "Do you know what today is?"
She was still smiling at Chase.
"Saturday, honey."
"What's the date?"
Mom frowned.
"The fourteenth."
"Of March."
"Yes, Chloe, of March."
I waited.
I gave her ten full seconds, and I counted them.
Dad cut a second slice of roast.
Chase said, "Are we doing a quiz?"
"It's my birthday," I said. "I'm eighteen today."
The table went quiet in a way I had never heard before.
Mom put her hand to her mouth.
For half a second I thought she was going to cry.
Then she laughed.
"Oh, is that today? Oh, honey. We'll do something this week. Remind me."
"Remind you."
"Don't make a face, Chloe. It's just a birthday. You're not a baby."
Chase snorted into his cider.
"She's been in a mood since breakfast."
"I made breakfast," I said. "For all four of you."
"And we appreciate it," Dad said, in the calm voice he uses on customers. "Sit down and eat, Chloe. Your food's getting cold."
Penelope stared at her plate.
She would not look up at me.
I thought about every birthday since I was ten.
A grocery store cake once, bought the night before.
Twice a card signed by Mom for the whole house.
Last year, nothing, and a lecture the next day about being dramatic.
I thought about the stack of Penelope's skating bills I had paid with my diner tips, and I did not say that either.
I reached into my pocket.
My house key was on a green ring with a blue plastic fish.
I had worn that ring thin from the inside.
I set the key down on the good tablecloth, beside the potatoes.
It made a small, clean sound.
"What is that?" Mom said.
"My key."
"Why is it on the table?"
"Because I'm done."
Dad put down his fork.
"Chloe."
"Happy birthday to me," I said.
I picked up my jacket from the back of the chair.
I did not pick up my glass.
"Sit down," Mom said, still smiling for an audience of nobody. "Honestly. You're embarrassing yourself."
Chase leaned back in his chair and laughed out loud.
"Where are you even going to go?"
"Anywhere that knows what day it is."
I walked down the hall past thirteen years of family photos.
There was not a single one of me alone.
I opened the front door.
Behind me, I heard Dad say, in that same flat, certain voice, "Let her go. She'll be back for breakfast."
I closed the door quietly.
I did not look back.
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