Chapter 3
Alex was the one in the family who treated me the worst.
Not the kind of bad where he yelled or hit me. It was the kind where he acted like I didn't exist.
He never remembered my birthday.
Once, on my birthday, I bought myself a cake. I put it in the living room on the third floor. I lit one candle, about to sing Happy Birthday to myself.
Alex came upstairs to look for Nicholas. He walked past and glanced over.
"Who's having a birthday?" he asked.
"Me," I said.
He thought for a moment. A look of effort crossed his face, like he was trying to remember something.
"How old are you again?" he asked.
"Twenty-three," I replied.
"Oh. Well, you're not a kid anymore. Don't bother celebrating. It's a waste of money," he said.
Then he grabbed a piece of cake, crouched down, and fed it to Nicholas.
Nicholas ate it. His tail wagged like a propeller.
Alex laughed and rubbed Nicholas' head. "Good boy, Nicholas. Happy birthday."
It wasn't Nicholas' birthday.
His birthday had been three months before.
But Alex remembered to throw a party for Nicholas. He didn't remember my birthday.
I didn't say a word.
I stood there, still holding the cake knife. And suddenly I felt like I didn't even matter as much as the dog.
On Nicholas' birthday, Alex rented out the whole pet park. He invited 30 Corgis to celebrate with Nicholas. The place was decorated like a fairy tale world.
Balloons, streamers, and a custom dog cake with "Happy Birthday Nicholas" written in meat paste on top. Alex livestreamed the whole thing. 20 million people watched online.
Nicholas wore a golden crown. He ate his custom cake. 100 million people wished him a happy birthday.
The chat was flooded with: [Alex really adores his dog.]
[Nicholas is living the dream.]
[I want to be Alex's dog in my next life.]
I watched that livestream.
I watched Nicholas surrounded by people, getting all the attention and love. It suddenly hit me.
Not once in my entire life had my whole family ever celebrated my birthday together.
Not once.
When I was young, on my birthday, my mom would be at a concert, my dad on a movie set, Alex at training, Chloe on a runway.
The maid would bake me a small cake. Just a simple one. With a single candle.
"Happy birthday, Nina," she'd say.
And that was it. Nothing more.
Later, when I got older, even the small cake stopped.
Because the maid said, "You're old enough now. Make it yourself."
So I made it myself.
I did that for over ten years.
Every birthday, alone, a small cake with a candle.
One year, I burned the cake. It came out lopsided and sad.
I took that cake and sat in the kitchen alone. Then I suddenly started crying.
After I finished crying, I ate the cake.
Because if I didn't eat, I'd be hungry.
No one was going to make me another cake.
*****
Chloe was a little better than Alex.
At least she remembered I existed.
When she went abroad for fashion shows, she'd sometimes bring me a gift.
Even though they were just random things she grabbed at the airport duty‑free shop. She wouldn't even take off the wrapping paper. She'd just throw it on my bed and say, "Here. For you."
Once she brought back a lipstick. I opened it and saw that it had been used.
She saw me looking at it and said, "Oh, I tried that shade and didn't want it. You can have it."
I said okay.
Then I put the lipstick in my drawer and never touched it.
It wasn't that I was disgusted.
I just didn't want to use something she didn't want.
In this family, everything I owned was something nobody else wanted.
The clothes my mom didn't want went to me.
The makeup Chloe didn't want went to me.
The game consoles Alex didn't want went to me.
The books my dad didn't want went to me.
I was basically the family's dumping ground.
They tossed all their unwanted stuff my way.
And after that, they'd say, "Nina, why do you keep everything? Are you a hoarder?"
I said, "Because you gave them to me."
They said, "So? Just because we gave them to you, you have to keep them? Can't you throw them away?"
I said, "Then why don't you just throw them away yourselves?"
They didn't say anything.
Because they didn't want to feel guilty for throwing something away.
Giving it to me meant it wasn't really thrown away.
What perfect logic.