Eleventeen.

I am 11 years old today. There is no party - I don't like having parties anymore. There is a cake though, and streamers hang from all 4 corners until they meet and intertwine with the ceiling fan in the center of the room. There are pink balloons and presents stacked high on the kitchen table, in no particular order. Dad must have been up at 5 in the morning to pull this off - He always beat me to it, and I'm an early riser. There is a stack of Birthday cards at the center of the table, they read, "love, Grandma" "love, Dad" "love, Christopher and David" there is even one from the pets. One card is absent. Never have I quite experienced a birthday like this one. You have never been absent before. Everything is aesthetically perfect. Everyone is smiling. Everyone but me. I can't remember exactly what I got on this particular birthday, all I can seem to remember is what I didn't get.

Weeks later, a package arrives. It's a large package. And it has my name on it. Sitting, straddling this box, I stare with bewilderment, hesitating, but my modesty is fleeting. I open it, moving it closer toward me with a jerk, amass with packing peanuts which, at this point, are flowing from all sides of the box, from beneath I uncover 2 sun dresses, 3 T-shirts, some assorted jewelry, and a box of floral stationary. On the box is a post-it note that reads, "Write to me whenever you'd like, whether you are happy or sad or lonely or just to say 'Hey' [...]" There is also a letter. It's 7 pages in length. I'm 11 years old and I can't read cursive. I brush it aside. "This isn't important." Instead, I try on the dresses, the shirts, the jewelry. I unwrap the stationary and begin writing you a letter thanking you for the gifts. There's something missing.

You didn't leave me with a return address. Not a real one, anyway.