Happy Birthday
Birthdays are a time for celebration; most people count down the days, minutes, even seconds until their next birthday. You get to be one year older, spend time with your friends and family, and who doesn’t love opening presents. Well, not for me—if I could skip over my birthday every year, you better believe I would. Not necessarily because I don't look forward to all of the marvelous things that everyone else does on their birthday, but because on my 15th birthday—tragedy struck.

“Life is like a box of chocolates,” something that my mom would always tell me. It’s a common saying and very cliché, but a lot of times it was the only thing that could get me through my day. My mom is a lovely lady, her beauty so genuine, her heart so warm. She always has her arms wide open; no one is as welcoming as her. My family was what you could call the ideal family, until one day something just didn't seem right. I came home after school and my parents said that we needed to have a talk. Now how often do “talks” with your parents end well? Almost never. My heart was racing, my palms were instantly clammy, and my face had to have been as pale as a ghost. The next words that came out of their mouths were terrifying. It was said so quickly in such a trembling tone, I thought it couldn’t be real.

“A DIVORCE?!” I screamed so loud the neighbors could probably hear. My voice was shaky—it took everything I had to hold back the tears. I can't believe they would do this to me—to us—how selfish. I gave them no time to explain; I didn't care. I may have been young but it still hurt. What would the kids at school think, would my family ever be happy or normal again? Now you are probably thinking this is the tragic event that happened, but it was just starting. Things were just starting to get back to normal, my mom had her own place and so did my dad. I would spend the week with my mom and the weekends with my dad. It was difficult getting used to such a transition after spending my whole life with them together, but over time it gradually got easier and the pain finally seemed to fade away.

My mom has always been my rock, as I have always been her “baby.” I was the most important in the world to her and I don't care how old I got, that is exactly how it should stay. We spent every waking moment of every day together; I could always count on her for anything. Whenever I had a dreadful day I would come home and lay my head on her lap. She would talk to me and tell me everything would be okay, I had no reason to doubt her—she had never let me down before.

“Hey bud? Can you come here for a minute I have tell you something,” my mom yelled from her bedroom. I was confused, a little anxious, and worried at what this could possibly be. It never seemed to be good news, but this time I was really hoping it would be. I peered my head into the door and there was this strange man, someone I had never seen before just looking down upon me with this goofy smile on his face, he reached out to shake my hand and I hastily turned away.

“Who is this?” I didn't care that I was being rude, I was not ready for her to bring another “fatherly” figure into my life and I knew she wasn't ready either. She scolded me for being disrespectful and explained to me that she had been seeing William for quite sometime now and he was going to move in. I was livid; I couldn't even hold it in. I threw a fit—worse than when a child couldn’t get any candy or a toy he wanted. I was flailing and screaming on the floor, for a moment I was acting worse than a child. Looking back I wasn't upset because she wanted to bring someone into our house, but I was worried—terrified that I might lose her. I would no longer be the most important thing to her.

Months passed by like days and William was still living in my home. Even though he seemed to make my mom very happy, I just had a bad feeling about him. They were always screaming at each other late at night, which I could only hear because I eavesdropped. They tried exceedingly hard to hide any of their problems from me. I had been through one divorce and my mom did not want to put me through all the bickering and fighting again. While this was very sweet of her, I still wanted to be there for her. I didn't want her to feel alone because she would always have me. As I got older I spent less and less time at home, just like any typical teenager. I even started to bring girls home and just like any mother she would do everything in her power to embarrass me. This girl was something special though; the one that I would never want to let go of. If it wasn't for her I don't believe my mom would still be here today—she is the one that pointed out my mom was being beaten by William.

I was dumbfounded, the second I confronted my mother about it she couldn't hold back the tears. Tears were streaming down her face, she was sobbing so loud that I knew he would hear. William pushed through my bedroom door and demanded to know what the problem was but neither of us said a word. I looked at my mom and said, “We need to leave.” I grabbed a few things and we left, I'm not sure why he didn't try to stop us, he didn't even seem mad. “You'll be back,” he chuckled, “and I'll be waiting.”

You would think that would be enough to make someone change but it wasn't, my mom returned home, and continued to get beat. There were so many times I wanted to turn him into the cops, but my mom constantly begged me to not say a word to anyone. She promised me she would find a way to get us both out and we would be safe forever and it would just be her and me, she promised. Never had she broken a promise, until this time.

January 25th, the day I was born, the day that we would always celebrate as a family. The smell of chocolate chip pancakes, the sizzling of the crispy bacon and the cold refreshing taste of orange juice was the first thing I looked forward to every year on my birthday. Except this year was different, when I woke up the house was silent, too silent. There were no aromas, as if I was the only one home. I jumped out of bed, “This isn't right, I know it's not, something must be terribly wrong.” I slowly moved my blinds to the side and peaked out the window to see if William had left for work. He was gone, which was a relief—my mom must just be sleeping, maybe she forgot to set an alarm. I stopped by the fridge and pulled out the orange juice when I heard the shower running. I knocked on the door, “Mom?” No response. I knocked even harder, “Mom, answer me!” Still no response. I opened the door and found her body lying lifelessly on the floor; the bathroom was filled with steam, making it almost impossible to breath. There were bruises all over her body. She was a mess; I shook her and still nothing. I rushed to call 911, when they arrived they asked me millions of questions but I was too scared to answer a single one.

That day—my birthday—I spent the whole day at the hospital, just waiting. I wanted to know what happened and if she was going to be okay. It seemed like days before the doctor told us anything. My brother, dad, and I were asked to sit with the doctor and a counselor to discuss my mother’s circumstances. Weeping we all slowly walked to the room and sat there in silence, emotionless—as if all of the life had been sucked out of us.

“The bruises were not the cause of her unresponsiveness. She wanted to end her life, and she told us that she didn't think she could do it anymore, so she took pills, way too many pills.” When the doctor told us this we were in awe. That’s not like her, she has always been so happy, she loved her life, and she loved her family. Why would she do this to us? When they finally allowed us to see her, I asked if I could go in alone. I walked into her room, my head down.

“Well, happy birthday to me, right?” those were the only words that would come out of my mouth, I sounded so selfish like I didn't even care about her, but the thing is I did, she's my mom—my rock—the only person that loves me unconditionally, I was so hurt. I could see she was hurting too; we sat in that room for hours, her arms around my neck as her tears rolled down her face and landed on mine. I told her I was happy she was okay but that she didn't have to be so selfish. She didn't have to do something so stupid. She apologized and promised she would never do it again.

Once she was released from the hospital my dad treated us all to dinner; I had a feeling this might bring them back together but I was not going get my hopes up. Nothing but small talk was made at dinner, we made sure to stay clear of the tragedy that just happened but I could tell in everyone’s eyes they were hurting. We were happy that she was okay but we all felt guilty—me especially. I was the only one that knew what was happening to her and I did nothing about it. We all decided that it would be a good idea to sell moms house and we would all move back in as a family until my mom was back on her feet again.

My birthday was ruined and it will never be the same, but I am more grateful than ever that I still have my mom. “Life is like a box of chocolates,” she whispers to me every night before I go to bed. She has learned right from wrong—we all need to make mistakes to appreciate things in life. It just so happens to be that some mistakes are more extreme than others. In the end what matters most is you surround yourself with the people you love and the people that love you. Life is precious and every moment counts. Never take what you have for granted because one day—it could all disappear.