Maxine
“Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday, happy birthday,
Happy birthday to you.”
My mom sang, holding a huge lemon-themed cake topped with what I assumed were eighteen candles.
“Mom, what—isn’t it like two in the morning?” I said groggily, trying to sit up.
“I know. I just got back from work,” she whispered.
“Come on, make a wish and blow the candles,” she said.
Make a wish. Every year, I wished for one thing: for my mom and me to be happy together forever. No one dying anymore. There was that one time in junior year I wished for a Louis Vuitton bag and my paternal grandma bought it for me.
I took the cake with the burning candles and closed my eyes. This year, I was going to wish for two things: getting into Princeton and for my boobs to stop growing
