Almost every year on her birthday, Beth's birth mom sends her a basket of homemade cookies. Inspired by Aimee Bender's "The Particular Sadness of a Lemon Cake."

There were no cookies sent on my first birthday. Just a letter of subtle longing yet overarching respect that made her distant yet somewhat real. I wasn't allowed to formally see it, but I found the pink envelope on my mom's shelf while I was looking for Clue several years later. The g's and y's were extra curly, like she was trying to tie a bow with her words.

On my second and third birthday, there were no cookies and no letters. Instead, my life was filled with other things: stuffed elephants and pumpkin patches and extra fuzzy socks and shiny gold stars.

The first time I got them was on my fourth birthday. My mom, who was always cheery and bright-eyed, seemed to dazzle with the kind of radiance that was too sculptured for my minute logic (though I tried so hard to understand and categorize it). I stood in the living room with ladies from mom's work and friendly neighbors, anxious to scratch through my presents. "This last one is very special," Mom said, her teeth pearly and shiny. I nodded, because I always wanted so much to be very accepting. She then left for her bedroom and emerged again with a small brown wicker basket covered in bright pink saran wrap. I clamored up the chair to peer inside, and stacked one above the other were about a dozen picturesque chocolate chip cookies. "Someone who cares about you a lot made them for you," Mom went on, and she peeled off the saran wrap, and I dipped my hand into the basket.

I picked out a big one, examined it, and then took a big bite. I tasted the milky butter, the chewy dough, the crushed eggs, and the rich and melting chocolate chips, but tucked deep with within the pockets of flour, there was something else. I felt a rush in my chest and a kind of energetic surprise took hold of me. "It's exciting," I gurgled, mouth full.

Mom tilted her head. "What, baby?"

"The cookie," I tried to explain. "It's excited." My crowd of guests stared at me for a second, but soon, everyone broke out in laughter.

"Your daughter is such a charmer," they said and etc. I just smiled, and they smiled back, so I ate the rest of my cookie and felt that same combustive wave charge underneath my skin and through my veins. It was an encouraging feeling, so I ate a few more to bathe in its heartwarming dough.

On my fifth birthday, the setting was almost the exact same plus a handful more kids from my kindergarten class. However, this time my mother brought out the cookies when most of my classmates left, as to preserve them for myself and myself only.

The basket was slightly different but still almost identical to the one a year before. The saran wrap was green this time, though a little more matted and old. I didn't care for the wrapping too much as I quickly tore it open to get to the cookies underneath. This time, they were not chocolate chip; it was peanut butter, purely creamy with that nutty kick at the end of each bite. But within the peanuts and the butter, there was a hefty desperation with each turn of the batter that seeped into the skin of the cookie. I didn't cringe, but there was an obvious drop in my face that my mother noticed.

"Does it taste okay?" she asked.

I looked to her and furrowed my brow. "It's…" I didn't want to lie, but at the same time, it didn't exactly taste bad. I struggled to find words as I took another bite, but the same pass of apologetic flour got too much that I had to put it down. "It's sorry," I said.

Mom stared at me and put a hand against my forehead. "Sorry?"

"Uh huh," I nodded and scooted away from the cookies. "Like when… like when I forgot it was Mary's turn during jump rope so I went ahead of her and told her to wait and she started crying. It's sorry like how I was sorry. Like I forgot all about her." I blinked at the basket, and my head felt overwhelmingly penitent that if someone were to have spilled cherry soda on the carpet, I would have been the one apologizing for it instead.

On my sixth birthday, I was awoken to the basket of cookies since I was going to the zoo that day instead of having a party. "Look what I have!" Mom walked in cheerfully, and she sat at the end of my bed as I crawled over towards her. To my surprise, it wasn't a basket this time. It was a magenta, blue, and bright yellow paper plate with a clear plastic tied with a simple yellow ribbon on top.

I held the paper plate very carefully. "Is it from the same person?" I asked suspiciously.

"Yes," Mom smiled and gestured me to open it.

I pulled on one end of the ribbon and watched the whole thing fall apart. The plastic fell dully to the sides, exposing the golden cookies propped delicately atop. As ritual, I took one, handed the rest to my mom, and took a bite. It was a fancier kind of cookie this time: white chocolate macadamia. The creamy white chocolates blended with the crisp macadamias, but it was so… fast. So rushed. So much that I felt the pressure to eat the cookie before it ate me.

"Slow down," my mom laughed, but I shook my head.

"It's like it was late," I said, still in a hurried voice. "Like it was late for something and was in a hurry." I felt myself growing hot and put my cheeks in my hands to cool myself down.

My mom wiped the hair from my forehead, looking worried. "Beth, are you okay?" I didn't say anything. I was looking around the room for something chilly that could cool me down. "Beth, why do you always describe these cookies like they have…" My mom shook her head, trying to find the right word. "Like they have feelings? Like they're a person?"

I shrugged because it was getting too hot, and I wanted to leave the house. "Can I get dressed soon?" I asked, and my mother watched me for a second before nodding and walking towards my closet.

On my seventh birthday, it was oatmeal raisin. Mom took me and a few of my friends to the carnival that came to town, and during dinner, she plopped the cookies on the table for dessert. "Beth, you get the first pick," she said so warmly that I completely missed the caution in her eyes.

The original wrapping had been discarded as my mom had to put it in tupperware. I paused before taking my bite, but once I did, I was filled with such blissful ecstasy that I stuffed the rest of it in my mouth and licked my fingers for the buttery traces of pure delight. The oats were fresh with joy, and the juicy raisins were stuffed with elated pleasure. They were happy! So undeniably happy! I quickly ate one after the other and tried to be mindful of my guests, but they did not receive the same kind of jubilation I was getting from every bite. They ate the cookies with a muted contentedness, but I was exultant with every chewy and quenched morsel that I was put in the most pleasant and light mood for the rest of the week.

On my eighth birthday, my mother saved the cookies for the end of the day. I had just come home from a full day of playing at the park, shopping, and watching a play that made mom cry at the theater. I was just about to go to bed when she came shuffling in with the cookies. They were kept in what looked like a very fancy porcelain white bowl with robin's egg blue flowers detailed around the edge. I saw through the clear saran wrap that they were snickerdoodles, one of my absolute favorites. Mom had to be the one to unwrap this time, just so I didn't accidentally drop the plate and had glass spill everywhere, but once she did, she handed me the cookie and I jumped into my kitchen chair to take a bite.

I leaned over suddenly, like there was a blow to my stomach. I placed my head on the table, but it wasn't cold enough, so I slipped onto the kitchen floor to let the tile chill surround me. It was comforting, if only a little, but the hollow taste in my mouth pierced my tongue and hid malevolently in my throat that I started clawing at my mouth to get it out.

"Beth," my mom said worriedly. She fell to the floor and knelt down next to me. "Beth, baby, what are you doing?"

But it was too much. It was so… It was crippling. There was so much pain punched into every drop of oil, so much anger melting with the butter. A complete slap of ignored depression rolled itself with the cinnamon, and I started to cry.

"Beth, honey, what's - "

"It's empty," I tried to explain, but I was howling with fresh hot tears streaming down my face.

"What, what's empty?" I felt my mom stroking my hair, trying to hush me and get me to sit up, but I needed the cold tile floor to keep me from burning, so I threw myself away from her and back on to the floor.

I tried coughing, spitting, anything and everything to get out the horrible and overwhelming sadness out of my mouth, but it was still there, clinging onto me with every bit of life support. I didn't notice I was crying louder as I tried to silence myself. "Take it out," I wept. "Mommy, please. It's so sad. It's really sad. Please get it off."

She kissed my forehead and tried picking me up again, but I restrained. "C'mon baby, let's go to the hospital."

"No!" I screamed, and a new wave of tears splashed down my face. The look on her face was of complete mortification, a mother who didn't know how to console her own child. Her own child. I blinked up, trying to rub the tears from my cheeks and spitting once again at the floor. "Who makes me these cookies?"

My mom's eyes started to well up, but she shook her head and patted my cheeks. "Her name is Quinn," she said in a low voice.

"I think she's sad," I choked. "I think… I think she just feels so bad."

My mother didn't know what to do, but after I was able to calm down, she let me sleep in her bed with her that night and stroked my hair until I passed out so she was able to cry herself.

On my ninth birthday, there was someone at the door.

Her name was Quinn Fabray, and she was the one who made the cookies.

My mother called me from my room to greet her, but Quinn didn't say anything. She just stared at me, her eyes round, so I introduced myself first. "I'm Beth," I said.

Quinn looked at my mother quickly before looking back at me. "Hi Beth," she said softly, and then she moved away from the door and walked towards me. "I'm Quinn." She bent down at my level and smiled a weird smile, but she was very pretty for someone who looked a little… empty. I was reminded of last year's cookies, so I smiled back in hopes to cheer her up.

"Do you make me cookies on my birthday?"

My mother was still by the door, watching our exchange, and Quinn kept glancing back before talking. Finally, she nodded, her lower lip quivering as she broke out into a slow smile. "Yes," she whispered but quickly cleared her throat. "Did you like them?"

I didn't know how to respond, so I shifted my weight and looked at my shoes. "I liked the oatmeal raisin because they were happy."

"Happy?" she said, a little confused, but my mother coughed, and it seemed like something in Quinn's brain clicked when she stared back at me. "I see. Beth… your mom told me that last year, you said the cookies tasted… sad. Like they were… sad and alone and… empty."

I stared at my shoes some more because I didn't want to be reminded, but I knew it was rude so I looked back up and saw there were some tears in Quinn's eyes. "Kind of," I said.

"I want you to know, Beth, that I'm okay. And I'm… I'm so sorry. About the cookies and about… I'm feeling better now, and I hope that this year, these cookies will be okay, too." She reached into her purse and pulled out a large zipped plastic bag, about half a dozen sugar cookies inside. She unzipped it and then handed it over to me, and I reached curiously inside to grab one. With a strong sense of courage, I took a bite and let the sugary sweet lullaby wrap around my tongue to decipher this year's feeling.

Love.

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