For a boyfriend or girlfriend
Open on your birthday morning
I wrote this on Tuesday, at the kitchen table, while you were asleep with one foot out of the blanket the way you always do. I wanted the first thing you read today to be from someone who actually knows you. This year I watched you take the job you were scared of and get quietly good at it. You never once made a big deal of it, so I am making one now. My wish for you is small: one whole weekend this year where you do not check your email and I make every meal. Happy birthday. Come find me, I have coffee.
Yours, on this day and the ordinary ones.
For your mom or dad
Open on your birthday
You are going to say you do not want a fuss, so this is not a fuss, it is a letter. I have been thinking about the winter you drove me to practice every morning at six and never once complained where I could hear it. I did not understand what that cost you until this year. I do now. I hope this year has more of the things you keep putting off: the garden, the trip you mention every Christmas, an afternoon that belongs to nobody but you. Happy birthday. Thank you for all the six a.m. drives.
Love, your kid.
For a best friend
Open when the birthday dinner is over
It is late, the good people have gone home, and you are probably standing in the kitchen deciding whether to deal with the plates. Leave them. I wanted the last thing you read tonight to be this: you are the person I call first, and I have never told you that in words because you would make a face. There. It is in writing now. Remember the night we missed the last train and decided we lived at that station? That is the energy I want for your year. Happy birthday, you absolute menace.
For someone far away
Open on your birthday, wherever you are
I hate that I am a flight and seven hours away from bringing you breakfast, so this has to do, and I wrote it carefully so it feels less like a substitute. Here is what I would have said across the table: this past year you handled the move, the new city, the loneliness of the first month, and you did it with more grace than you gave yourself credit for. I saw it from here. Pick one thing today that is purely for you and pretend I chose it. Next year I bring the breakfast.
Counting the days, and the time zones.
For a future birthday
Open on your eighteenth birthday
You are eight as I write this, asleep down the hall with the dinosaur lamp still on. Eighteen-year-old you will find that embarrassing, which is fine. I want you to know what you were like at eight: fearless on a bike, terrible at hiding vegetables, the kind of kid who apologised to chairs when you bumped them. I hope you kept the last one. Whatever you are worried about tonight, I promise you it works out in some shape or another. I have been here the whole time. Happy birthday, love.
Mum, ten years ago.