My family never remembered my birthday. Ethan got a private steakhouse dinner for his; Chloe got a Six Flags trip and an Instagram carousel captioned "our little princess." Mine falls on July nineteenth, mid-summer vacation, and always passed without notice.

I thought turning eighteen would be different. Instead, Mom left to take Chloe to dance, Dad and Ethan left to play ball, and I spent the day alone. I texted the family group chat: "I'm eighteen today!" No one replied.

That night's dinner was Ethan's favorite ribs and Chloe's favorite mac and cheese. No cake. No candles. No one sang. Everyone in this family got a birthday—except me. I was eighteen now. I could finally decide for myself where I wanted to go.