Page 1 of Vega

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SONNET ELLISON

“Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me...”

I leaned over the small breakfast Danish on my counter and watched the single candle flicker while I finished singing. Buying an entire cake for one person felt wasteful, so every year I chose something small from the bakery section and pushed a candle into the center. That morning, it was a cheese Danish with strawberry drizzle.

I closed my eyes, made a wish, and blew out the flame.

Singing happy birthday to myself had become a ritual when I was five years old. That was the first birthday I could recall, and I remembered spending it alone. On my birthday, it was more important that my mother work than celebrate it with me. She was a struggling single mother that seemed to never be able to catch a break. I never got birthday presents, let alone a birthday party. She couldn’t afford daycare or babysitters, so that also meant that I was home alone on my birthday.

When my mother first surrendered me to the state, I believed she couldn’t afford to keep me and had made the hardest decision of her life. The older I got, the less genuine that explanation felt. Over the years, I’d watched single mothers online and at work struggle with more than one child and still choose to keep their families together. That forced me to admit my mother hadn’t only been overwhelmed. She’d also grown tired of the responsibility that came with raising me.

Even before she gave me up, I’d spent more time alone than with her. Her attention went to her boyfriends, friends, and whatever club she planned to be in that night. Once she realized men would give her the money she needed, keeping them interested became her priority. Not me.

Once she surrendered me to the state, the group home I lived in never celebrated my birthday. I wasn’t even sure the people running it knew when it was, or if they knew and just decided it wasn’t important. Either way, birthdays taught me early that waiting for other people to make me feel special was just a surefire way to end up disappointed. So, I made sure to celebrate myself.

I went from home to home until I aged out of foster care. By then, I had learned not to depend on promises or people. Stability was something I created for myself because nobody had ever handed it to me.

I wasn’t completely alone. I had Dior in my life now. He made sure to call at midnight, sing badly on purpose, and show up later that day with balloons, liquor, and a gift. He loved me in every way a best friend could. But he wasn’t family. That absence always became more apparent on my birthday. I had no parents, no grandparents asking what I wanted for dinner, no cousins filling a group chat, and no aunts and uncles insisting I visit so they could slip money into my hand.

My mother’s parents had died before I was born. She never told me who my father was. Conversations I’d overheard between her and her friends had led me to believe that my mother was with a married man who wanted nothing to do with her or me once I was born.

I cut into the Danish and lifted the first bite to my mouth. I could feel the sadness ready to ruin the day if I gave it permission. But I didn’t. My mother had already taken enough from me. The foster homes had taken what was left. I had decided a long time ago that I would be happy regardless. I refused to let the circumstances of my childhood define me. I wouldn’t surrender my happiness to the families who walked past me during open houses and chose another child. I wouldn’t let abandonment decide what kind of woman I became.

Nobody had selected me. So, I selected myself. I earned scholarships, collected degrees like Pokémon cards, built a career, and created a home where I never had to wonder whether I belonged. Every good thing in my life existed because I refused to become what my past predicted.

I raised my coffee cup toward the empty kitchen. “To me.”

The smile that followed was real. I might not have been surrounded by family, but I was alive, accomplished, and happy, and that was worth celebrating.

“This is what you wear on your birthday?” Dior looked me up and down with an appalled frown as I walked towards him in the restaurant. He made no effort to hide his disappointment as he stood near the hostess stand.

I glanced down at myself. “What’s wrong with this?”

I wore an olive-green pencil skirt that hugged my wide hips and stopped below my knees, with a slit in the front that made it easier to walk. I had tucked a white button-down blouse into the high waist and finished it with a slim brown belt, gold bracelets, hoop earrings, and brown heels. My structured handbag matched my shoes.

I thought it was a cute but professional look for my birthday. Yet, according to Dior’s expression, I had arrived dressed for jury duty.

“It’s giving regional manager,” he frowned.

I shrugged with a giggle. “Well, I am working today.”

“You could have still dressed like it was your birthday, instead of dressing like you’re about to give your dissertation." He stepped closer and attempted to unbutton my shirt.

I slapped his hand away. “Stop!”

“I’m trying to give the people something.”

“The people don’t need anything from me.”

“You have cleavage. You should acknowledge it occasionally.”

“My coworkers don’t need to see my cleavage.”

Dior rolled his eyes and linked his arm through mine. “I guess this is cute for somebody who plans to spend her birthday updating spreadsheets and pretending she doesn’t know what dick is.”

“I don’t update spreadsheets all day.”