1 On my eighteenth birthday, burning with a fever of a hundred and six degrees, I lay alone on the freezing concrete floor of my tiny apartment. On my phone, notifications from the family group chat were lighting up the screen like fireworks. A five-tier custom cake. Ninety-nine red roses. My father was holding her, my mother was kissing her forehead, and my brother was raising a glass to toast her. The girl they were celebrating was Molly, the adoptive daughter who had been raised in my place. I was the biological daughter of the Prescott family, lost for fifteen years. They found me and brought me back three years ago, yet I had never truly managed to step inside their front door. I called Dad seven times, but nobody answered. I messaged my brother, but he left me on read. I called Mom, and the first thing she said when she picked up was, “Maeve, can you stop causing trouble?” Then the line went dead. I lay on the floor, next to a cheap strawberry cupcake that cost me under ten dollars. The candle on top was crooked, never having had the chance to be lit. I closed my eyes and made the exact same wish I had made for the past eighteen years. I hoped someone would remember today was my birthday. I hoped someone would say those two simple words to me: Happy Birthday. I had made this wish for eighteen years, and not once had it ever come true. And this time, it would be my last. … On the night of my eighteenth birthday, my fever spiked to a hundred and six degrees. I curled up on the cold floor of my rented room, waiting for the end. The room was barely seventy square feet, with no heating. The bitter November wind whipped through a cracked windowpane, cutting into my skin like tiny knives. I huddled into a tight ball, my bones feeling as if they were roasting in a furnace. Every cough felt like shards of broken glass scraping through my lungs. My phone screen lit up. It was the family group chat. Dad had sent a sixty-second voice note. My trembling finger tapped it, and a flood of laughter and music poured from the speaker. “Come on, everyone! Our darling Molly is eighteen today! Raise your glasses. Happy birthday to our little princess!” My brother Tristan’s voice followed immediately after. “Happy eighteenth to the sweetest little sister in the world!” A stream of photos flooded the chat. A heart-shaped wall of ninety-nine red roses, a five-tier custom fondant cake, and a glittering crystal chandelier. Dad, Mom, and Tristan stood in the center, their smiles brighter than the lights. Molly, the center of their universe, wore a pink gown shimmering with diamonds, her makeup flawless, her smile radiant. Three years ago, a DNA test had rewritten our destinies. I was the biological child the Prescotts had lost fifteen years ago, and Molly was the girl who had been accidentally swapped at birth. But three years later, the Prescotts kept Molly and left me out in the cold. “Molly grew up with us. It would be too cruel to force her to leave,” they had told me. “Just live on your own for a bit to adapt, and we’ll bring you home when the time is right.” Three years had passed. Three years of renting a room alone, working part-time, and going to school. What I got in the end was not a ticket home, but a steady stream of family portraits in the group chat, each one more lively than the last, and none of them featuring me. Mom sent another message, just three words: “My precious girl.” It was paired with a selfie of her kissing Molly’s forehead. My tears fell onto the hot, glowing screen. Today was my birthday too. Molly and I shared the exact same birthdate. Yet the entire group chat, the cakes, the flowers, the warm embraces, were all for her. Nobody remembered it was Maeve’s birthday too. I desperately dialed Dad’s number. The first call rang eight times and went to voicemail. The second call rang twice before being declined. The third, the fourth, the fifth… By the seventh try, his voice finally came through. But he wasn’t speaking to me. “Hey, stop it, Molly! Don’t cut the cake yet! Let me take this call… Hello? Who is this?” “Dad… it’s me, Maeve…” Laughter bubbled up on the other end, someone shouting for her to make a wish. “Maeve? What’s going on? I’m busy right now, let’s talk tomorrow…” “Dad… I’m sick… my fever is so bad…” Before I could finish, a sweet, high-pitched voice erupted through the receiver. “Dad! The ice cream cake is going to melt! Hurry up!” “Coming, sweetie! Maeve, take some medicine and go to sleep. I have to go.” Beep. The line went dead. The phone slipped from my weak fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud. I turned my head, my eyes scanning the suffocating space of my apartment. Cheap instant noodles were stacked like a mountain in the corner. Two faded shirts hung on the drying line, and the broken window was sloppily patched with plastic wrap and tape. Finally, my gaze landed on the old cardboard box at the foot of my bed, tied neatly with a ribbon. Those were the gifts I had saved up all year to buy. Just hang in there, Maeve. Once you give them these gifts, they’ll want you back. I dragged myself up, leaning against the wall to search for fever reducers. The nightstand was completely bare. I was certain I had left the bottle on top of the cabinet yesterday. Molly had come by yesterday afternoon to return some keys, and the medicine was there. She had claimed her stomach hurt and asked to use my bathroom, staying for about five or six minutes. When she left, she had given me a sweet smile. “Take care of yourself, Maeve. Drink plenty of water.” Where was the medicine? I bent down, searching under the cabinet, the bed, the table. Nothing. My head felt like it was splitting in two, and there was no time to think. I dragged my shaking legs toward the door. I grabbed the knob and twisted. It didn’t budge. I twisted harder, putting all my weight into it. The lock remained completely frozen. I couldn’t open it from the inside. This lock worked perfectly last week. Why was it suddenly… I banged on the door, kicked it a couple of times, but the solid wood only gave a muffled thud. The hallway outside was silent and empty. Pressing my back against the door, I slid down to the cold floor. The phone buzzed again. A video was uploaded to the group chat. Molly was sitting on the leather sofa in the middle of the living room, surrounded by beautifully wrapped designer boxes. She opened the first one and squealed dramatically, “Oh my gosh! Tristan, the limited-edition journal! Thank you so much!” Tristan sat beside her, gently ruffling her hair. The room was bathed in golden light, the crystal chandelier casting a warm glow over their happy faces. I watched the video three times. On the third run, my eyes locked onto the corner of the living room, onto the empty chair beside the piano. During the brief two weeks I was allowed to stay with them three summers ago, that was where I sat every day. I had been too terrified to reach for food at the dinner table, too scared to speak loudly, too timid to touch the fruit on the coffee table. I had just watched them from afar, quietly, thinking that simply being in the same room was enough to make me happy. But then Molly had wept into Mom’s arms. “Mom, she wants to steal my family. I don’t want her here!” That very night, Dad had the driver take me back to my rented room. They didn’t even let me pack my things. I dialed Tristan’s number. It was my second call of the night. It rang three times before he picked up. “Maeve?” Tristan’s voice was laced with irritation, the background music deafening. “What is it?” “Tristan… I have a fever, a really bad one… and the door is locked from the inside… could you…” “Hold on.” In the background, Molly’s voice floated over, dripping with sweetness. “Tristan! Come take a picture with me! Mom wants to post it on social media!” Tristan’s tone shifted instantly, turning soft and indulgent. “Coming! Maeve, you do this every time. Every single time Molly has a birthday, you have to start drama. Just take some medicine and go to sleep. Stop acting out.” Beep. Call ended. Total duration: 23 seconds. He didn’t even listen to what I had to say. My phone screen reflected my shattered image, pale-faced, with dry, cracked lips bleeding slightly. I dialed Mom’s number for the very last time. It rang twice and connected. “Maeve? What’s wrong?” It was Mom’s voice. The voice of the woman who had given birth to me but never raised me for a single day. Tears spilled over my cheeks. “Mom… Mom, I feel so sick… I have a fever… the lock is broken and I can’t get out… Mom, can you come see me? Just for a minute… please…” A second of silence on the other end. Then, a slight scuffle over the phone, followed by Molly’s low but crystal-clear voice. “Mom! Who are you talking to? We’ve tried taking the family photo three times already, we’re just waiting for you!” Then, Molly’s voice rose, her sweet facade barely concealing the cold calculation beneath. “Maeve! If you’re not feeling well, you should sleep early. Make sure to drink plenty of water! Mom is really busy right now, so we can’t talk!” Beep. The call ended. It wasn’t Mom who hung up. It was Molly. I heard her laugh in the final second before the line went dead. A light, brief snicker. But that laugh carried a chill that turned my blood to ice, even through my hundred-and-six-degree fever. The floor was freezing. The chill brought a fleeting moment of relief to my burning skin, but it was immediately followed by a wave of violent shivering. I curled up by the door, my limbs spasms uncontrollably. My coughs grew heavier, leaving a metallic taste of iron in my mouth as warm blood dribbled from the corner of my lips. My vision blurred with tears. Looking up at the yellow water stain on the ceiling, I hallucinated that it was a moon. The moon of my eighteenth year. I only wanted to celebrate my birthday. No cake, no gifts, no parties. Just a single phone call, just a simple “Happy Birthday.” But the entire world was celebrating Molly, while I burned away in a dark corner. With the last of my strength, I reached for the cracked phone, unlocking it after three attempts. My call history showed: Dad, seven missed calls. Tristan, one call connected, 23 seconds. Mom, one call connected, 47 seconds. With trembling fingers, I dialed the final number: 911. “911, what is your emergency?” “I… fever… can’t get out… door is locked…” “What is your address?” “7… Cooper Lane… Apt… 3B…” “Understood, we are dispatching a unit. Can you open the door?” Open the door. I stared at the brass knob that refused to turn. The final ounce of life slipped from my fingers. “Can’t… can’t open…” “Stay on the line, we will contact you when we arrive.” The operator’s voice grew distant, muffled as if traveling through thick layers of cotton. The phone slipped from my grasp, the screen splintering further. Through the cracks, a new notification from the family group chat flickered: a family photo. Dad, Mom, Tristan, and Molly, all smiling perfectly. There was no fifth chair. There was no need for one. I collapsed onto the floor, my eyes taking a final look at the ribbon-tied cardboard box, then at the cheap strawberry cupcake under the bed. The crooked candle remained unlit. Forget it. I’ll just wish in my heart. I closed my eyes. “I hope in my next life… someone will say Happy Birthday to me on my birthday…” Eighteen years. The same wish every year. Not once had it been granted. My consciousness receded like a retreating tide, draining from my fingertips, my toes, my heart. In my final moments, I heard the wind howling through the broken window. The bitter November wind, weeping for someone.
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