So, what does it actually mean? It means your birthday is no longer just a birthday. It becomes a memento mori—a reminder that you will die, too. But also, a reminder that you are still alive. It’s the ultimate duality. You can’t have the joy of another year without the sting of his absence. They are now permanently two sides of the same coin, and you have to carry that coin in your pocket forever.
Now, on my birthday, I light two candles. One for the year I’ve survived, and one for him. One for life, one for death. I eat the cake, I feel the weird salt of old tears, and I laugh at the sheer audacity of the universe. Did he do this to me on purpose? Probably not. But it sure feels like his sense of humor. “Happy Birthday, kid. Now get back to work. You’re not done yet.”
If this is happening to you—if you’re reading this and feeling that sick twist in your stomach—just know: you’re not cursed. You’re not being punished. You’ve been given a very weird, very heavy, very complicated gift. Your birthday is now a day of radical honesty. You don’t have to pretend to be happy. You can hold sorrow and celebration in the same hands. And trust me, a few years in, you’ll look at that cake, look at the sky, and just think: “You son of a bitch. You really did it. You made it all about you one last time, didn’t you?” And then you’ll smile. It’s a weird smile, but it’s yours.
