A/N: This was written five years ago and I just found it again. Although now I know I could do better, I still kind of like the message behind it. It makes me sad. Poor Rinoa…
"Happy birthday Rinoa!
Happy birthday to you!"
Blushing happily, a thirteen-year-old Rinoa Caraway blew out the candles on her three-layer cake and grinned as all her friends cheered. Her straight black hair hung down to her waist, carefully braided and entwined with bright yellow ribbons the same color as her gown, and her brown eyes gleamed in the pale light of the room. As the children around her laughed and chattered, Rinoa slid down off her chair and raced to the other end of the hall, her patent leather shoes clipping on the tile. "Is he here yet?"
Her maid shook her head, wringing her hands on her ironed apron, and there was no mistaking the look in her eyes. Pity. Biting her lip, the young girl stared hard at the ground, dragging a toe lazily to trace the whirling patterns on the floor. "Are you sure he said seven? Maybe he had a late meeting…"
"No, miss. I distinctly heard him say seven o'clock, but…" Rinoa could tell the maid was simply trying to make her feel better. "I think he's coming this year, Miss Rinoa." Reaching down, the older girl enveloped the other in a fierce hug. "And if he doesn't, well you know all the rest of us wish you a happy thirteenth birthday, don't you?" Rinoa nodded, trying to stop her eyes from filling with tears, and graced the maid with a wavering smile.
"Thanks, Caitlin." A roar of laughter erupted from the table, and she glanced behind her. Caitlin followed her eyes to where Jackie Grishham was wiping blue frosting off his face with a napkin, and both girls rolled their eyes.
"Go on back to your party, Miss Rinoa," Caitlin urged, giving Rinoa a friendly shove. "I'll tell you when your father arrives." Smiling brightly, Rinoa skipped off, her yellow ball gown floating out behind her.
The clock chimed eight o'clock. Nine o'clock. Ten. Rinoa feigned excitement as she tore open her presents; wrapping paper flung all over the floor as Caitlin and the other maids scurried to pick it all up. Ever year she received the same things from the same people, and she knew she should have been grateful for such expensive and wonderful things, but she wasn't. All fifty-three children at her party were the sons and daughters of the men her father worked with, and none of them would ever think of buying the presents themselves. Her entire life, parties had been ways for her father to make more money. Angrily, she ripped open the golden paper of the box in her lap, and clapped her hands, lifting out a genuine torama-hair sweater, courtesy of Eliza Dunwell's father, picked out by Eliza's personal maid. Eliza wrapped her arms about her and kissed her cheek, and Rinoa tried not to scream in disgust.
Eleven o'clock. The doorbell rang as chauffeurs pulled up in the driveway, ready to take their young charges home, and slowly each guest filed out, waving goodbye and screaming, "Happy birthday Rinoa!" before disappearing into the night. Rinoa was left standing in the ball room surrounded by presents and balloons, her dark hair loose in its bindings.
Midnight. A tear streamed down her pale cheek, and she dashed up the stairs, her slender body wracked with sobs. The door slammed, and the maids glanced at each other sadly before carefully putting everything back in its place. By the time they had finished, there was no sign a party had ever taken place.