My 12th birthday. What on earth do I have to give anyone? Aunt Esme and Uncle Sara gave me a big party – providing all the mathoms for "my" guests. Well, all the lads and lasses at the Hall seemed to be having fun at the party. All except sulking boring me.
It seems such a strange affair. Lads and lasses from the Hall gathered for my benefit. But I don't care to know these guests, and by the look of it, they didn't care much for knowing me. They seemed to be having a good time, though
My guardians made a good show of it, I think. Tried to. But it makes what is missing all the more sharp, like a bee sting that doesn't really start to hurt until the next day. I won't tell Aunt Esme that that my ma would have made my favorite sticky marmalade rolls, as she has for every birthday since I can remember. And that we would have made cider in the morning after a grand breakfast. And I won't tell her that we always just had the three of us because they knew I did not go much for parties. I won't pain aunt Esme with these family traditions that she cannot mimic. I won't have her setting her mind to creating pale charades of things that carried their own quiet meaning for me. I won't tell her that I don't like parties. And I won't tell her that the entire time, I wanted nothing more than to bolt away, lock myself in my room, and curl up with a book.
Well, I'm here now. Happy birthday Frodo.
Frodo.
