My mother called me the night before her sixtieth birthday and said, “Don’t come tomorrow. Your stepsister needs to be the only daughter there.”
She said it like she was asking me to pick up milk from the store. And I was standing there holding the gift I had spent three months making for her.
A handmade photo album. Pictures from every year of her life. Photos I had collected from relatives across the country.
“What do you mean, don’t come?” I asked, thinking I must have misheard. “It’s your sixtieth birthday. I’ve been planning my speech for weeks.”
My mother sighed like I was being difficult.
“Rebecca feels uncomfortable when you’re around. She needs this day to bond with me without competition.”
Rebecca was thirty-two years old and had been my stepsister for exactly eleven months, ever since my mother married her father. “Competition?
Mom, I’m your daughter. Your actual daughter. I’ve been to every single birthday for thirty-four years.”
There was silence on the other end.
Then she said something that made my stomach drop. “That’s the problem. You’ve had thirty-four years.
Rebecca needs a chance to catch up.”
I drove to her house immediately. It was ten at night, but the lights were on, and I could see people inside setting up decorations. My aunt Diane’s car was in the driveway.
So was my cousin Tom’s truck. They were already there, preparing for tomorrow. I knocked, and my stepfather Howard answered, looking embarrassed.
“Maybe you should come back another time.”
He tried to close the door, but I saw my mom in the living room hanging streamers with Rebecca. “Mom,” I called out. She froze.
Rebecca whispered something to her. And my mother actually nodded. She walked to the door, but she did not invite me in.
“We discussed this. Tomorrow is Rebecca’s day to shine.”
I looked past her at the banner stretched across the living room wall. Happy 60th Birthday, Mom.
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