It was a day or two before my 12th birthday, and my brother was home alone. My mom had baked my favorite cake, which at the time was chocolate chip cake with chocolate frosting, and it was sitting on the counter in the kitchen. We came home from wherever we were, and as I walked through the house, I noticed a plate with a fork and some crumbs on it.
“Stay calm,” I told myself. He could have just eaten something else on that plate. Surely, even he, wouldn’t eat my birthday cake before my party. Not my big brother–even though he beat me at every game we ever played and made fun of me for losing, even though he and a friend had tormented me when we were younger by playing tug of war with my stuffed snake, even though he and my cousin had a habit of sneaking outside while I was absorbed in cartoons—not even HE would EAT MY BIRTHDAY CAKE BEFORE MY PARTY!!! I quietly walked back into the kitchen, and then screamed, “MOOOOOM. HE ATE MY BIRTHDAY CAKE!!!!!!” God bless my mother who had made arrangements that year to have a friend make me a special cake with a doll in the middle and the cake around decorated like a dress with yellow flowers. It was supposed to be a surprise for my party, but the only way my mother could calm me down was by telling me ahead of time.
This story has been told and retold hundreds of times, and my brother and I still discuss it. Did he not remember it was my birthday? Did he know it was my birthday cake but not care? We joke about when and how I will finally forgive him for such a sin. We wonder at how we ever ended up liking each other after the way we acted as children. I recently visited him over the weekend of his birthday, and I bought him a cake. After bringing it to his house, he grinned and told me I should have cut out a piece of it before giving it to him. Damn. I missed my chance!