It was gloomy that day. The weather echoed my feelings, sad and listless. Everything around me was a dull, drab grey. Everything, except the sparkle of rain when it hit the road. That was silver. A ray of light in a dark place. The clouds hung low and showered blessings from the heavens on us mortals. Birch Street was filled with people like me, walking home after a hard day's work. But, it was not like other days. There was no lilting laughter of young girls or the screams and shouts of young children running around or even the monotonous tone of businessmen. There was a different atmosphere in the air. Most people pulled their trench coats tighter around them, and walked fast, splashing others as they stepped into pools of murky water. The clicking of heels was at a faster tempo than usual and there were no lovers sauntering down the walk, oblivious to all but themselves. The spiciness of mint leaves from a shop hung in the air like an unsounding, invisible veil. Clouding us from light and happiness. It was a day like no other.
It was my birthday. I was going to be 23 years in a few more hours. It was exactly like the years before except that this year, I had dared to hope. Dared to believe and now I wish I had not. Dad was not coming back home. As far as I could remember, birthdays were celebrated with mother and a chocolate cake. We would light candles, sing the song and cut the cake all by ourselves. Them as our family tradition required, mother would put a paper crown on my head, declaring me the queen of the day. Dad was never there. He never was. Every year he promised, and every year I knew not to hope too much. It was the same vicious cycle, year in and year out. He would give me candy-coated, sugary promises. All very sweet, but yet I knew there was no substance. Something would come up or his health would prevent it and he never came. Years passed. The freshness of spring, innocent and bubbly turned into hot, humid, bright summer. Then summer...