If you thought my ninth birthday ended with the whole family laughing at my parents' hospital video, you clearly haven't met my relatives.
I told you about the conversation I had with Mother that evening, when I asked her why she'd named me Nyx. But I skipped what happened between the embarrassing video and that quiet moment with her photograph album.
And trust me, the afternoon deserves its own account.
For one thing, someone nearly ruined a perfectly good white dress.
For another, my grandfather gave me a diary that I would eventually have more questions about than answers.
But at the time, the only question I cared about was this: What was Father going to give me?
The moment Grandma finally switched off the television, I escaped the living room.
Not because I didn't love my family. I did. Very much. But there are limits to how many times a girl should be required to watch her father kiss her mother while grandparents and relatives provide commentary.
"Nyx!" Mother called as I hurried toward the garden doors. "No running!"
"I'm walking quickly!"
"That's running with an excuse!"
I slowed down until I was safely beyond her sight.
Outside, our garden had been transformed into a place that looked far too grand for a nine-year-old's birthday party. Ribbons hung from the trees. Round tables stood beneath cream-coloured canopies, and trays of snacks seemed to appear whenever anyone emptied one. A cake taller than my little brother waited inside, guarded by a member of the household staff who looked afraid someone might steal it.
I had considered stealing the icing flowers earlier. Apparently, the guard knew.
The guests were another matter.
My father had invited family friends and several shareholders from his company. There were men in expensive suits, women wearing beautiful dresses, and conversations full of words such as investment, expansion, and quarterly returns.
At my birthday party.
I loved my father, but I sometimes suspected he would invite a board of directors to a picnic if Mother allowed it.
Fortunately, many of the adults had brought their children. The moment those children discovered the garden, the party became much more interesting.
"NYX!"
I turned just in time for Kim Seong to come charging toward me.
Seong was my best friend. Not one of my best friends. My only proper best friend, which made the position extremely important and, according to Seong, quite exhausting.
She had tied her hair back with a yellow ribbon that was already slipping loose. She wore trainers beneath a pretty dress because, unlike some people, she understood that birthdays were meant for running around.
"I've been looking everywhere for you," she said.
"I was being tortured."
Her eyes widened. "By whom?"
"My grandparents. With a romantic video."
Seong considered that. "Could be worse. Your mother could have made you watch it twice."
"Don't give them ideas."
She grabbed my wrist. "Come on. Everyone's by the swings."
The swings stood near a patch of lawn at the far end of the garden, where the grown-ups could see us without having to listen to every argument.
A boy named Michael had declared himself the champion of a contest that nobody remembered agreeing to.
"It's simple," he announced, standing beside the swing. "One person sits, one person pushes, and whoever swings the highest wins."
"Who decides what's highest?" I asked.
"Me."
"Then you're cheating already."
Seong burst out laughing.
A few children volunteered to act as judges instead. Michael complained but accepted their decision, which was very mature of him considering he spent the next five minutes explaining why he was still going to win.
Seong pushed while I held tightly to the chains. The breeze tugged at my hair, and the garden dipped and rose before me. I laughed so hard that Seong threatened to stop pushing unless I stopped giving instructions.
"Higher!"
"I'm trying!"
"You said that last time!"
"You have legs, Nyx. Help!"
I pumped my legs and rose a little farther.
The judges cheered. Michael protested. Someone shouted that my hair was probably adding extra height, which was ridiculous because my hair was not a ladder.
When we stopped, I climbed off with my cheeks warm and my knees trembling pleasantly.
Another child tried spinning around on a smaller playground seat until he made himself dizzy. He insisted he was fine, took two steps, and promptly became sick behind a hedge.
The rest of us stopped laughing long enough for an adult to help him. After some water and a rest, he announced that he had meant to stop anyway.
Nobody believed him.
Then the girl in white arrived.
I didn't know her name. I only knew that her dress had more lace than my bedroom curtains and that she'd spent most of the afternoon looking at the other children as though we were making a terrible mistake by enjoying ourselves.
"Move," she told Michael, who had just sat down for another turn.
Michael stared at her. "I'm next."
"I said move. I can do better than all of you."
"Then wait your turn," Seong replied.
The girl looked at me. "Is this your party?"
"Yes."
"Then tell him to get off."
It was a strange request. Being the birthday girl did not automatically make me the queen of the swings.
"You can go after Michael," I said.
She folded her arms. "Fine. But you'll see."
Michael gave up his turn, partly because he was annoyed and partly because he wanted to see what she would do.
The girl sat down, ordered an older child to push her, and immediately demanded more speed.
"Higher!"
"I think that's enough," the child said.
"I said higher!"
The swing rose. She threw her head back triumphantly. Then, while it was coming down, she attempted to jump off as if she were performing the final trick in a circus.
Her shoes hit the grass at a bad angle.
She lost her balance and landed on her bottom in a muddy patch beside the lawn.
For a heartbeat, nobody spoke.
She blinked at the brown stains spreading across her lovely white dress.
Michael made a strangled noise.
I pressed my lips together.
Seong turned away so quickly that her ribbon flew across her face.
Then the girl began to wail.
An adult hurried over. We all went quiet while her mother checked that she hadn't injured herself. Thankfully, she was more embarrassed than hurt, though the dress looked as if it had lost a fight with the garden.
"Are you okay?" I asked.
She glared at me through her tears.
"I'm sorry you fell," I added.
I meant it. Mostly.
Her mother led her away to get cleaned up. Michael watched them disappear, then whispered, "She did go higher than us. Just not in the right direction."
That was when Seong snorted.
And once Seong started laughing, the rest of us were helpless.
I made a mental note to write the incident in my diary. Birthdays deserved memories, and this one was certainly memorable.
"What next?" Seong asked when we'd finally recovered.
I thought for precisely three seconds.
"Basketball."
"Of course," she groaned. "Why did I even ask?"
There were many things I enjoyed: video games, table tennis, reading when the book was interesting enough, and anything involving a ball. Basketball was my favourite outdoor game. I loved the sound of a bouncing ball, the challenge of getting past an opponent, and that wonderful instant when a shot left your hands and you somehow knew it would go in.
Sometimes I knew before I could have explained why.
That happened with other things, too. I'd pick up a new game and discover I could manage it surprisingly well without much instruction. Seong called it cheating. I called it talent.
Father called it a good reason to buy me more sports equipment.
We had a small court behind the garden. By the time Seong and I reached it, several other children had followed us. Michael came, too, still looking pleased with his swing commentary.
"Teams!" he shouted.
"I'm with Nyx," Seong announced.
"You always say that," Michael complained.
"Because we're a team."
"Then I'm choosing the other side."
We divided the children as fairly as possible. Two who didn't want to play became enthusiastic spectators, and one little boy appointed himself referee despite admitting he didn't know all the rules.
It was the best arrangement possible.
Within minutes the court filled with squeaking trainers, shouted instructions, and the cheerful confusion of children convinced that every point was the winning point.
"Pass!" Seong yelled.
I passed.
She missed.
"That was a terrible pass!"
"You said pass, not perform a miracle!"
The children at the side of the court yelled, "Ooooh!"
Someone on Michael's team scored.
"YEAH!"
Our supporters groaned dramatically, collapsing against one another as though the world had ended.
Then I stole the ball, slipped between two defenders, and took a shot.
For a fraction of a second, the movement felt oddly familiar, as if I'd practised it a thousand times in a dream I couldn't remember.
The ball sailed through the hoop.
Everyone shouted.
Seong ran toward me. "How do you do that?"
I shrugged. "I aimed."
"I aimed too!"
"Perhaps the basket likes me more."
She chased me halfway down the court for that.
We played until the adults began calling for us to slow down. I was smaller than many girls my age, and after running so much my breathing grew a little tight. I knew better than to ignore it. My asthma could turn a fun afternoon into a miserable one if I pretended it wasn't there.
Seong noticed first.
"Break?" she asked quietly.
I nodded.
We stepped off the court, had some water, and waited until my breathing settled. She didn't make a fuss. That was one of the things I liked best about her. She knew when to tease me and when to simply stay beside me.
Eventually we returned for a slower final round.
Seong's team won by one point.
"You cheated," she told me afterward.
I stared at her. "You won."
"Exactly. Imagine how badly you'd have lost if you hadn't cheated."
"You pulled my shirt!"
"That was strategy."
"That was a crime."
"Then arrest me, birthday girl."
We both collapsed onto a bench near the garden, laughing too hard to continue the argument.
Someone brought us water and little bowls of ice cream. I chose chocolate. Seong chose strawberry, then looked jealously at mine and asked to taste it.
"You always do that," I complained, passing her the spoon.
"Because you always choose well."
We sat with our legs stretched out, watching the grown-ups circulate among the tables.
Father was shaking hands with a man in a navy suit. Mother stood nearby, laughing at something an older woman had said. They looked perfectly comfortable surrounded by people who discussed profits over birthday cake.
"Why are there so many businesspeople here?" Seong asked.
"I think Dad believes work follows him everywhere."
"Even to your birthday?"
"Especially to my birthday."
Seong looked thoughtful. "At least they brought their children."
"That's the only reason I haven't sent everyone home."
She laughed and nudged me with her shoulder.
"Did you have fun?"
I looked toward the swings, the basketball court, and the scattered ribbons stirring in the afternoon breeze.
"The best."
"Good. You're only nine once."
"Unless someone discovers how to rewind birthdays."
"If they do, don't let your dad rewind that hospital video."
"Seong!"
She laughed so hard she almost dropped her ice cream.
A member of the household staff appeared at the garden doors and called my name.
"Miss Nyx, your parents are ready for the presents."
I stood so quickly that Seong caught my empty bowl before it fell.
"Finally!"
She shook her head. "You love presents more than basketball."
"That's not true."
"More than ice cream?"
I hesitated.
"Don't ask difficult questions on my birthday."
Inside, the gifts had been arranged near the cake. There were boxes wrapped in shiny paper, bags decorated with ribbons, and several envelopes from adults who apparently thought money was easier to carry than toys.
They weren't wrong.
Mother called me forward while Grandma fussed over the position of my hair.
"Stand properly, dear. Everyone wants to see you."
"I'm standing."
"You're leaning."
"That's a type of standing."
Grandma gave me a look, and I straightened up.
One by one, relatives and guests offered gifts or wishes. I thanked each person, accepted their hugs, and endured the occasional kiss on my cheek. Some presents were so heavy I needed help carrying them. Others were only kind words, but Mother made sure I listened to those just as carefully.
"Not every gift comes in a box," she whispered.
I nodded. She was right, even if boxes were easier to stack.
Grandma stepped forward carrying an enormous shopping bag.
"For my sweet girl."
Inside were twelve packets of chocolates.
Twelve.
I counted twice to be certain.
"Grandma!"
She laughed as I hugged her. "Don't eat them all tonight."
"How many may I eat?"
"Ask your mother."
An excellent way to give a gift and immediately ruin its freedom.
Then Grandpa approached.
Unlike Grandma, who loved a dramatic entrance, he carried a small package wrapped in plain brown paper. He placed it gently into my hands.
"For you, Nyx."
I unwrapped it.
Inside lay a diary with a dark, worn-looking cover and a pen resting beside it. The diary was beautiful in a quiet way. Its pages were thick and smooth, and the binding looked sturdier than the notebooks I used for school.
"A diary?" I asked.
Grandpa nodded. "For your thoughts. Your adventures. Things you want to remember."
"Can I write about people falling off swings?"
He chuckled. "If that's what matters to you today."
I ran my fingers along the cover. For some reason it felt older than a birthday present should, though perhaps Grandpa had chosen it because he knew I liked unusual things.
"Thank you."
"Take good care of it," he said.
His tone was gentle, but there was something unusually serious beneath it.
Then he smiled again. "And I have another surprise for you later."
My head snapped up.
"What surprise?"
"If I tell you, it won't be a surprise."
"A clue?"
"After the guests leave."
"Grandpa..."
He tapped the diary lightly. "Patience is a useful skill, young lady."
"Then someone should give me some for my birthday."
He laughed and returned to his seat.
My uncle presented a set of books. My aunt gave me a bracelet I immediately wanted to show Seong. Seong's gift was a bright little box containing something she'd chosen herself, and I promised to open it with her later. Mother kissed my forehead and handed me a neatly wrapped present, reminding me that she and Father had agreed not to compete over whose gift was best.
Which was an interesting agreement, considering she knew Father.
By the time the last guest stepped aside, the table was crowded with presents.
But one person hadn't approached.
My father.
Every year, Murphy Cheng waited until everyone else had finished. On my fifth birthday he'd surprised me with a phone and headphones I'd wanted for months. Since then, the final gift had become a tradition I looked forward to almost as much as the cake.
I turned toward him.
He was standing beside the doorway, smiling at me in a way that made my stomach flutter with excitement.
"Dad?"
"Yes, princess?"
"You're last. Again."
"Am I? How unfortunate."
"What did you get me?"
He clasped his hands behind his back. "Something."
"That's not an answer."
"It's an accurate one."
Seong giggled beside me.
Father stepped forward, and the adults grew quiet. Even Grandpa leaned back in his chair to watch.
"You've had a wonderful birthday?" Father asked.
"Yes."
"And you've thanked everybody properly?"
"Yes, Dad."
"And you haven't eaten twelve packets of chocolate?"
"Not yet."
Grandma laughed.
Father crouched so that we were eye to eye.
"Then I suppose it's time."
He held out his hand.
"Come with me, Nyx. There's one last present I want to show you."
I glanced at the diary resting against my arm, then at the mysterious smile on his face.
Whatever he'd planned, it was clearly too big to fit on the gift table.
And if there was one thing I knew about my father, it was that he never did anything halfway.
I took his hand.
"All right," I said. "But it had better be good."
His smile widened.
"Oh, princess," he said, leading me toward the door. "I certainly hope you think so."