The Best Birthday Gift I Gave Mom at Twelve

1 My sister was back in the hospital. All because I opened a window for some fresh air. Outside the ward, my mother jabbed a finger at my face, her spittle flying as she screamed, “We never should have taken you back! Your grandmother raised you wrong, sending you here just to torture your sister!” “If anything happens to Rosie, you can forget about living, too!” Deep in the night, the house was silent. A tall man in a black coat phased through the wall and drifted straight toward my sister’s bed. “Rosie Wallace, your time is up. Come with me.” My sister was sound asleep, but I was wide awake. I scrambled up from my makeshift bed on the floor and stood between him and my sister. My voice trembled, but I didn’t move. “Sir, you’ve made a mistake. That’s my older sister. I’m Rosie.” I glanced back at my mother, sleeping in a chair beside the bed, her brow furrowed even in her dreams. Maybe she’d be happier without me. “Sir, I won’t run,” I said. “But… can I have three more days?” “I want to be here for my mother’s birthday.” … The Man in Black paused. The iron chain in his hand scraped together with a sound that set my teeth on edge. “A substitute?” he rasped. “To take another’s place is to forfeit your own soul, never to be reborn.” I didn’t hesitate. I nodded hard. I looked back at Rosie on the hospital bed. A little color had returned to her cheeks. Even in sleep, a faint smile played on her lips. Mom had read her three fairy tales before bed. Meanwhile, I was curled up on the cold floor, not daring to pull even a corner of the thin blanket for myself. “I’m willing, sir.” “As long as my mother doesn’t have to cry, I’ll do anything.” “Three days. Just three. I want to see her through her birthday.” The Man in Black was silent for a long time. So long I thought he was going to refuse, that he would swing his chain and drag Rosie away. Then, he slowly raised his hand. A tiny, nail-sized stick of incense materialized at his fingertips. It glowed with a violet light, the smoke curling not upwards, but around my wrist. It felt cool against my skin. “This is a soul-thread. When it burns out, your three days are up.” “I will come for you then.” And with that, he vanished into the shadows of the corner. I touched my wrist. A thin, violet mark glowed there, burning down with an agonizing slowness. My own personal countdown clock. I should have been terrified. But for some reason, a strange sense of peace settled over me. Grandma used to say that when people die, they become stars, and from there they can watch over the ones they love most. If I become a star, will I finally see Mom smile at me? Even just once. Just as the sky began to lighten, I was jolted awake by a wracking cough. I tried to get up, but my head was heavy, my vision swam with black spots, and my forehead was burning. “What are you coughing for?” My mother stood over me, her coat thrown over her shoulders, her face a mask of irritation. “If you wake Rosie, I swear I’ll rip your mouth off!” I quickly clamped my hands over my mouth, swallowing the rest of the coughs until tears pricked my eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” She scoffed, her eyes filled with disgust. “Well, get up. Rosie will want her vegetable porridge when she wakes. Go to the cafeteria and get it. Make sure it’s the softest kind.” She turned back to the bed, her movements becoming instantly gentle as she dabbed Rosie’s forehead with a damp cloth. I pushed myself up from the floor, my legs shaking. My knees, sore from kneeling for so long last night, screamed with pain. I didn’t dare say I had a fever, too. The last time I said I had a headache, Mom accused me of faking it to get out of chores. If I said anything now, she’d only get angrier. I felt the small, heavy weight in my pocket. My little piggy bank. It held a year’s worth of coins I’d saved since coming back from Grandma’s. I had been planning to buy a new backpack. The strap on my current one was broken, held together with a safety pin, and the other kids always made fun of me. But that didn’t matter anymore. I wouldn’t need a backpack where I was going. I was going to use the money to buy my mother a birthday cake. On her past birthdays, Rosie always got to cut the cake. The wishes were always for Rosie. I just wanted Mom to make a wish for me. Just once. Even if it was just an afterthought. Clutching my piggy bank, I shuffled out of the room. The hallway was freezing; the wind seemed to cut right through to my bones. But as I looked at the violet mark on my wrist, I couldn’t help but smile. Three days left. I had to make them count.

2 The hospital elevators were always a nightmare to wait for. Worried the porridge would get cold, I took the stairs. Nineteen floors. I had to stop on every landing to catch my breath, my lungs feeling like they were on fire. When I pushed open the door to the room, Dad was already there. He was holding a pink bag with the logo of the newest tablet on it. Rosie was propped up in bed, giggling as she played with it. “Thank you, Daddy! I love you the most!” Dad’s face was full of adoration. He reached out and tweaked her nose. “As long as it makes you happy and helps you get better, it’s worth every penny.” Mom was beside them, applying hand cream. The room was filled with a warm, sweet scent. The scent of a home. I was the only thing that didn’t belong. I stood there awkwardly, clutching the lukewarm porridge. “You’re back?” Dad glanced at me, his smile fading slightly. He pulled a pastry out of a bag at his feet and tossed it to me. “Here, you probably haven’t eaten.” The pastry was hard. It hit me in the chest with a dull thud. I looked down. It was one of those cheap, red bean buns, the kind with a bright yellow “Clearance” sticker on the plastic. Nearly expired. On Rosie’s bedside table sat a delicate tiramisu and a carton of imported milk. Rosie and I were twins, but she had been frail since birth. So, naturally, everything in the family went to her first. Including our parents’ love. “Thanks, Dad,” I whispered, bending down to pick it up. Grandma always said to be grateful for what you have. “Daddy,” Rosie suddenly whined, putting down the tablet. “My mouth tastes bitter. I want some of those candied chestnuts from the shop on the corner.” Outside, the sky was a dark, angry grey, and rain was pouring down in sheets. Dad hesitated. “Rosie, honey, it’s a storm out there. Can we wait until it stops?” Rosie’s eyes immediately filled with tears. “No, I want them now! Cough, cough, cough…” Her coughing sent the whole family into a panic. Mom started patting her back while Dad paced frantically. “Okay, okay! Chestnuts it is! Daddy will go right now!” He started to grab an umbrella, but then his eyes fell on me, standing in the corner. He stopped. “Nina,” he said. “Your sister wants chestnuts. Go and get them for her, would you? Your mother and I need to stay here with Rosie. You’re young, you can run. It won’t be a problem for you.” I froze. I wanted to say I didn’t feel well. I wanted to say it was pouring outside. But the look in his eyes silenced me. “Okay.” I put down the bun I’d just taken a bite of and walked out into the rain. I didn’t have an umbrella. The only one was by the door where Dad had left it, but he hadn’t offered it to me. And I hadn’t dared to take it. The rain hammered down on me. My head spun, and the ground seemed to tilt beneath my feet. But I couldn’t stop. I was afraid the chestnut shop would close, afraid Mom would call me useless. The shop was three blocks from the hospital. The rainwater was over my ankles, and my shoes were filled with muddy water. When I finally bought the chestnuts, the lady at the counter looked at me like I was some kind of strange creature. “Little girl, where are your parents? You don’t even have an umbrella in a storm like this.” I managed a weak smile and said nothing. I clutched the warm paper bag of chestnuts to my chest, using my body to shield it from the rain. I was running on my way back. I slipped in a deep puddle, my knee slamming hard against the sharp edge of the curb. My first instinct was to check the chestnuts. The bag wasn’t torn. They were still warm. I breathed a sigh of relief and limped the rest of the way back. When I got to the room, I was dripping wet. “What took you so long?” Mom hissed, keeping her voice low. “And stop stomping around! Rosie just fell asleep!” My hands, holding out the bag of chestnuts, froze mid-air. Dad was on the sofa, scrolling through his phone, not even glancing at me. “Just put it on the table. You’re dripping everywhere. Go dry off before you get your germs all over Rosie.” No one saw my bleeding knee. No one asked if I was cold. I quietly backed out of the room and curled up on a chair in the hallway, staring at the bag of chestnuts on the table. Rosie wouldn’t eat them when she woke up. She never ate chestnuts once they got cold. The thing I had nearly killed myself to get would most likely end up in the trash. Late that night, I looked at my wrist. The violet mark had already burned down by a third. I whispered into the empty air. “Mister Reaper, are souls real? When people die, do they still exist?” “I just want to see if Mom will cry for me. Just once.” The air was silent. No one answered.

3 On the third day, it was Mom’s birthday. My fever had gone down a little, but my head was still spinning. The violet mark on my wrist was just a tiny sliver now. I went to the nurses’ station and begged for a long time before one of them, Nurse Wallace, agreed to let me use the small kitchen in the breakroom for an hour. “Oh, you poor thing, you look so pale. You should be resting,” she said, reaching out to touch my forehead. I flinched away. I wasn’t used to being touched, even kindly. “Thank you, ma’am. I just want to cook a meal for my mom. It’s her birthday today.” I used the last of my money to buy groceries from the market. Sweet and sour ribs, steamed sea bass, and scrambled eggs with tomatoes—all of Mom’s favorites. Grandma taught me that the way to a person’s heart is through their stomach. I knew I could never capture Mom’s heart. But I had to try. The cooking fumes made me cough, and my hands were shaking so badly I nearly sliced my finger while chopping vegetables. But I was more careful than I had ever been. Blanching the ribs, caramelizing the sugar, letting it simmer slowly—I followed every step with meticulous care. When I was done, I packed the food into an insulated container and carried it back to the room. As I walked in, I saw Rosie leaning over the edge of her bed, trying to reach a glass of water on the table. I quickly put the container down. “Don’t move, I’ll get it for you.” I poured a cup of hot water and carefully handed it to her. She was weak from her illness, and her fingers fumbled. She couldn’t get a good grip. “Oops!” The entire cup of scalding water tipped over, splashing all over the back of my foot. Before I could even cry out, Rosie let out a piercing scream. “It’s hot! It’s so hot!” She clutched her hand, which hadn’t been touched by a single drop of water, and fat tears rolled down her cheeks. It was a performance she had perfected since she was a toddler. The door burst open. “What’s wrong?” Dad rushed in, his eyes immediately landing on the crying Rosie and the shattered porcelain on the floor. Without a second thought, he whirled around and shoved me hard. “Your sister is sick! And you’re making her get things for herself?” The force of the push was so strong that I stumbled backward and fell right into the pile of broken shards. A sharp, searing pain shot through my palm. Blood welled up, mixing with the hot water on the floor in a sickening swirl of red. “No, that’s not…” I opened my mouth, trying to explain. Rosie hadn’t held it properly. She had asked me to get it for her. I didn’t mean to burn her. But my throat felt like it was stuffed with cotton. I couldn’t form the words. Grandma always said that explaining was talking back. And nobody loves a child who talks back. I looked at Dad’s furious eyes, at the way he gently cradled Rosie’s uninjured hand, blowing on it softly. Something inside me shattered completely. “I’m sorry,” I choked out, my head bowed low, my tears falling into the puddle of blood. “I wasn’t careful. It was my fault.” If I just admitted I was wrong, the storm would pass. If I just stayed quiet, Mom’s birthday wouldn’t be ruined. As I expected, hearing me apologize cooled his anger slightly. “Just get out of the way. You’re an eyesore.” Ignoring the throbbing pain in my hand, I slowly picked myself up and began cleaning up the broken pieces. Then, I pushed the insulated container forward. “Mom,” I whispered as she walked in, her brow furrowed at the scene. “I made this for you. Happy birthday.” Her expression softened when she saw the table full of food. She didn’t yell at me. During dinner, Rosie chattered away, keeping Mom’s attention. I sat in the corner, nursing a bowl of cold, plain rice. Suddenly, a piece of pork rib landed in my bowl. Mom had given it to me. “Alright, stop looking so miserable,” she said. “It’s a happy day. You should eat, too. These ribs aren’t bad. You’ve got your grandma’s touch.” Tears streamed down my face. It was the first time Mom had ever served me food. The first time she had ever praised me. I put the rib in my mouth. It was so salty, drenched in the taste of my tears. But I chewed it slowly, carefully, not wanting to waste even the bone. It was the most delicious thing I had ever eaten. And it would be the last.