Yesterday was my birthday. 35 years old. 6 children. 3 sisters, 1 brother on my mums side. 2 sisters, 2 brothers on my dads. My mum and my dad. No grandparents. No aunties or uncles to speak of. Cousins, nieces, nephews, more than I can count.

I got 6 cards. One from mum, one from dad, one from my son and one from my ex sister and brother in law. They live not 20 miles away and moonpigged a card, just in case I thought I might have been important. One off a friend. One from my best friend in the world who sent me cake in a card.

Two phone calls. One from mum; one from dad. They both acknowledge my existence once a year so that’s nice.

I had 52 well wishes and happy birthdays on Facebook. I replied to every single one. It’s nice to know that more people online give a shit than anyone in my actual life.

Everyone asks “did you have a nice day?” Well, no. I never do. They’re the same as every other day. My trouble with birthdays is that I’ve never had anyone make me feel special on them. Ive never had a party, a surprise, been taken out. Ive never been made to feel like someone gives a shit.

I’ve done it all for everyone else but I’ve never been on the receiving end. My 8 year old kept asking where my presents were. Mummy doesn’t get presents, kiddo. It just doesn’t happen. He was quite disappointed. No one cares enough. My friend left a card and book on the doorstep for me to find. Which was very nice. Yes.

Today is the inevitable down day that follows such bullshit. I’m so annoyed with myself that it matters so much. Because it does matter. My friend turned 40 and was taken to Italy! My sister had a surprise 40th birthday party! With a band and over 100 people. I don’t even get a knock on the door.

Happy birthday to me. Another year alive. Huh.

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