Page 11 of The Birthday Girl
For a moment, Tahlia only stared. She thought she had misheard, especially after covering everything out of the kindness of her heart. Yet there Danielle was, looking at her like she had shown up empty-handed.
The crowd shifted. Whispers filled the air. A cousin muttered something she couldn’t catch, but the tone was enough. An aunt shook her head, disappointment etched into her face. All eyes turned to her, waiting for a reaction.
Inside, Tahlia was seething. Danielle had gone into labor unprepared, and it was Tahlia who had stepped in by throwing a baby shower after the baby was already born, so her sister wouldn’t have to sell her cat to afford essentials. And still, Danielle stood there, cradled by a room Tahlia paid for, wanting more.
They always wanted more.
“Where’s the father?” Tahlia asked as she adjusted the stroller handle, her face neutral.
Danielle laughed nervously. “Don’t be like that. You’re sitting on billions. I just knew I’d get a push gift. That Ferrari I told you I wanted would’ve been nice.” She giggled again, a sound that grated on Tahlia’s ears.
“Isn’t that the father’s job?” she pressed, genuinely baffled at why her sister’s needs and wants were thrust upon her.
“Tah, stop!” their mother hissed, her fingers latching onto Tahlia’s wrist below before pulling her to the side. Her voice dropped to a scolding whisper. “Leave it alone. Do not embarrass your sister at her baby shower.”
Tahlia stared at her, dumbfounded. “How is asking about the child’s father embarrassing? To have a child, a man is typically involved. Am I wrong?”
“Yes, but—”
She cut her off with a raised hand. “But nothing. I went out of my way to make sure this shower was beautiful, and I even brought a stroller that costs more than her rent. Now I’m responsible for push gifts too? Tell me, is that my child? Or better yet, isn’t it ungrateful when I’ve done more for her baby in one day than she managed in nine months?”
“That doesn’t matter. Her child is your niece. You should want to spoil her. Isn’t that what the rich aunties with no kids do?” Tisha spat back, her eyes sweeping over her daughter with disdain.
Tahlia scoffed. “Fuck you. Fuck her. Fuck that child. Fuck the man who got her pregnant and disappeared. Fuck this baby shower and the fake smiles. Fuck every one of you standing here with your greedy hands out. I am not your bank, I am not your savior, and I am not about to keep pouring into people who’ve never done a damn thing for themselves. You want a rich auntie? Find another one.”
“Tah-Tah, why are you looking at me like that? Are you still here?” her mother asked, waving a hand in front of her face.
Tahlia blinked and shook her head. “Yes, Mom. I’m here.”
“Are you sure? You looked spaced out for a moment.”
“Oh, sorry. What was it you were saying?”
“I think maybe you should leave and get some rest. You look exhausted, Tah.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Tahlia smiled awkwardly, already done with the conversation and the entire engagement.
She wished her mother had let her stay in that space. Cursing her out in her head felt better than the reality, where her checkbook earned more respect than she did as a person.
“Damn right, I—”
Mid-sentence, Tahlia walked away from Tisha, her heart bleeding and heels violently stabbing the floor as she made a beeline for the bar. Behind her, her mother's voice faded into the bass.
She ordered tequila, neat, and watched Danielle across the room, cooing at her swaddled infant. Their eyes met briefly, and Danielle's lips curled upward at the corners before she ducked her head back to the baby, whispering something that made the circle around her erupt in laughter.
The bartender slid over two shots. Tahlia knocked them back in quick succession, the burn spreading through her chest. The exit sign's red glow beckoned, so she headed that way. Outside, the evening air hit her flushed face hard.
Her Aston Martin gleamed under the parking lot lights, the only thing waiting for her. She slid in, slammed the door, and gripped the leather steering wheel until her fingers ached. A sound escaped her throat, something between a laugh and a sob, as she pounded the wheel again and again until her palms stung and her lungs emptied.
She pressed her forehead to the steering wheel and sat in the darkness, panting, the violence in her hands pulsing up through her tendons to her heart. She didn’t cry. Tahlia Banks hadn’t cried since the day she slid out of the birth canal, and she wasn’t about to start now, but the urge to split herself open and scatter her insides over the parking lot asphalt was strong.
Tahlia always left with resentment at the end of family events. Then she’d spend the entire drive home reliving each microaggression, each snicker and side-eye and ungrateful request, until the anger peaked and her mind splintered off into parallel universes of revenge. She let herself drift, fantasy and reality loosening their handshake.
In her mind’s eye, she set the banquet hall on fire with everyone still inside. She pictured the flames licking balloons until they were blackened plastic, the cake melting in a slumped heap, the air deluged with shrieks and the smell of scorched cotton candy.
She’d watch Danielle’s fat ass waddle toward the exit, the heat peeling her acrylics and singeing her wig into a blackened crown. Their mother, pursing her lips even as the smoke took her, would try to dial Tahlia’s number with melting fingers.
“Help us! Help us!” people would scream, but Tahlia would only lean against the hood of her car, arms folded, lips bloodless and perfect, and watch the windows blacken.
