**15th October**
I woke up to the clatter of dishes in the kitchen. Mum was already up, as usual, making breakfast for Dad before work. I stretched, smiled, and listened—maybe I’d hear birthday wishes drifting in from the kitchen? But all that reached me were the usual morning murmurs about the rain starting again and someone leaving an umbrella on the bus.
I sat up in bed and smoothed my pyjamas—pink with little elephants. Today, I turned nine. A whole nine years old! Yesterday, I’d reminded Mum twice that my birthday was tomorrow, and she’d nodded and said, “Of course, sweetheart, of course I remember.” But now, no one seemed in any hurry to wish me a happy birthday.
“Emily, breakfast’s ready!” Mum called from the kitchen, her voice as ordinary as ever.
I dressed quickly and hurried to the table. Dad was behind his newspaper, and Mum was plating up scrambled eggs. I hovered in the doorway, waiting.
“Morning, love,” Dad said, not looking up. “Sit down, or you’ll be late for school.”
“Morning,” I mumbled, sliding into my chair.
I waited. Maybe they were planning a surprise? Any second now, they’d bring out a cake or presents. But Mum just set a plate of eggs and a glass of milk in front of me like any other day.
“Eat up. You’ve got a lot of schoolwork today—you’ll need the energy,” she said, wiping her hands on a tea towel.
“Mum… do you know what today is?” I asked carefully, poking at my eggs.
“15th October. Why?” She glanced at me absently, already thinking of other things.
“Just wondered,” I said, staring at my plate.
15th October. She knew the date but not what it meant. My chest ached, but I swallowed the disappointment.
Dad finished his coffee, kissed Mum on the cheek, and ruffled my hair.
“Right, off I go. See you tonight,” he said, grabbing his jacket.
“Bye, Dad,” I whispered.
Then it was just Mum and me. She cleared the table, humming. I forced down the tasteless eggs.
“Mum, could we bake something later? Maybe a cake?” I tried again.
“Emily, love, who has time for cakes midweek? We’ve got that doctor’s appointment at six—remember? For your sore throat last week. Lucky we even got a slot.”
I remembered, but I’d hoped she’d reschedule. Who wants to see a doctor on their birthday?
“Couldn’t we move it?” I asked softly.
“Don’t be silly—they’re booked up for weeks! Go get ready for school, or you’ll miss the bell.”
In my room, I packed my bag. The girl in the mirror had sad eyes. *Maybe they’ll remember later*, I thought, tying my hair.
At school, I waited all day for someone to say it. My best friend, Lucy, should’ve known—we’d talked about birthday plans. But she was revising for a maths test, rattling off equations like they were the only thing in the world.
At break, I sidled up to her in the corridor.
“Lucy, remember what we said about the 15th?”
She blinked. “What about it?”
“Nothing,” I muttered.
The lump in my throat grew, but I swallowed it.
After school, I dragged my feet past shop windows—colourful cakes in the bakery, dolls in the toy shop. Any of them could’ve been mine, but no one had remembered.
At home, Mum asked about my day and homework like normal.
“Good. Got an A in English,” I said, hanging up my coat.
“Well done! Now, do your homework—doctor’s at six.”
I sat at my desk but ignored my books. Instead, I pulled out paper and coloured pencils. If no one else would, I’d make my own birthday card.
I drew a cake with candles and balloons, then wrote in big, curly letters: *Happy Birthday, Emily!* It looked cheerful. I hid it under my books—my little secret.
Time crawled. I kept glancing at the clock, hoping Mum would remember. Maybe she’d cook something special or pick up a cake after the appointment.
“Emily, time to go!” Mum called at half five.
The clinic was crowded. Mum chatted with a woman about grocery prices and the dodgy heating at home—nothing out of the ordinary.
The doctor was kind. She checked my throat, listened to my chest, and said I needed vitamins.
“How old’s our patient?” she asked, scribbling a prescription.
“Nine,” Mum said.
The doctor smiled at me. “Nine! Such a big girl. When’s your birthday?”
I looked at Mum, then at her.
“Today,” I whispered.
The doctor’s eyebrows shot up. Mum went pale and clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Today?” Her voice trembled. “Emily… it’s the 15th…”
Mum sank onto the chair, pulling me close. “Oh, sweetheart, forgive me! Work, everything—it’s all been such a muddle…” Her tears dampened my hair.
“It’s okay,” I said, patting her arm.
“Happy birthday!” the doctor chimed in. “Nine’s a grand age!”
We walked home in silence, Mum clutching my hand. At the doorstep, she stopped.
“Run inside to Dad. I’ll pop to the shops—quick as I can.”
“What for?”
“You’ll see. Go on!” She kissed my cheek.
At home, Dad paled when I told him. “I forgot too! Oh, love, we’re rotten parents…”
He hugged me tight, and the hurt began to fade.
Mum returned with bags full—a sponge cake, candles, balloons, even a little doll in a frilly dress.
“It’s all I could grab,” she said, breathless. “Tomorrow we’ll get you a proper present.”
“It’s perfect,” I said, admiring the doll.
Dad blew up balloons while Mum lit nine candles.
“Make a wish!” he said.
I closed my eyes, wished they’d never forget again, and blew them out.
The cake was delicious—strawberry cream. Over tea, they told silly childhood stories: Mum’s first bike ride straight into a puddle, Dad’s ninth birthday when Gran mistook salt for sugar.
“Emily,” Mum said later, “we’re rubbish at dates. Let’s start a family diary—write everything down.”
Dad nodded. “And check it every Sunday. No more upset.”
It wasn’t the birthday I’d dreamed of, but it was special. They’d understood, and that mattered.
At bedtime, Mum sat on my bed.
“Forgive me?”
“Course. Everyone forgets sometimes.”
“Not things this important.” She stroked my hair. “You’re so wise. And kind. I’m proud of you.”
“I’m proud of you too.”
“Night, my nine-year-old princess.”
After she left, I took out my handmade card and smiled. Tomorrow, I’d show them—proof that even when others forget, I can still find the celebration.
