Chapter 2: Fading from the Frame

I don't remember when I started becoming invisible.

Maybe I always have been.

When I was little, we took a family portrait. My dad held Chloe, and Ma had her arm wrapped around Thomas. I stood all alone on the side.

The photographer called out, "Come on, squeeze in a bit closer."

Ma shifted Chloe more toward the center. I leaned in a little. But when the photo was developed, I was on the far edge, with only half of my arm visible in the frame.

That photo hung on the living room wall for ten years. Later, it was replaced with a new one. I was in the new photo too. Still on the far edge. This time, even that half an arm was almost completely cut out.

When we gathered to celebrate Christmas, the house was packed. Uncle Henry Henry's family, Aunt Martha Martha's family, and our own relatives filled every corner. There were ten seats at the table, and ten place settings were laid out.

When I arrived, I counted them. One was missing.

I didn't say a word. I went to the kitchen, grabbed my own bowl and utensils, and sat on the small stool that had been added to the end of the table. The stool was only half as tall as the chairs, so I had to hunch over to reach the food.

This didn't just happen once. For seven consecutive Christmas Eves, my place at the table was always overlooked.

It wasn't on purpose. They genuinely forgot. They forgot that I was also part of the family, and that I needed a seat at dinner too.

When it was time to hand out the Christmas cash gifts, Ma pulled the envelopes out of her bag and handed them out one by one. Uncle Henry Henry's two kids got a thousand each. Aunt Martha Martha's kid got a thousand. Thomas's son got two thousand.

She even slipped in an extra comment: "Be a good boy, Leo. Grandma loves you the most."

Chloe wasn't married yet and had no kids. I was married. I had a daughter named Mia.

Ma finished handing out the gifts and put her bag away.

I waited a moment. "Ma, Mia's gift..."

She froze for a second. "Oh."

She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a noticeably thinner envelope. "Here."

Mia took it. She went back to her room and opened it. Inside was only two hundred dollars.

Every other kid had gotten a thousand or two. My daughter got two hundred.

Mia placed the envelope on the table. She was eleven years old. She could read numbers perfectly well.

"Ma, why is mine the smallest?"

I told her, "Grandma prepared them in a hurry and just forgot to put more in."

She didn't ask again. But she barely said a word for the rest of the night. I stayed quiet too, my heart heavy all evening.

On my twenty-sixth birthday, there was no cake. No phone calls. Not a single text message.

For Chloe's twenty-first birthday, Ma booked a banquet and invited seven or eight relatives. She uploaded photos to her Pictogram feed with the caption: "My daddy's little girl, forever eighteen."

For Thomas's birthday, Ma sent him a three-thousand-dollar gift via SwiftPay, with the note, "Happy birthday, son."

My birthday is in October. October meant absolutely nothing in our family. For nine consecutive years, no one remembered.

On the tenth year, I cooked a meal for the whole family on my birthday. Soy-braised pork ribs. Fish tacos. Garlic broccoli. My dad's favorite stewed radishes.

It was a full-course family dinner. I served everything on the table.

"Time to eat," I called out.

The whole family sat down. Ma put a piece of rib onto Chloe's plate. "Eat more, you're too skinny," she said.

No one thanked me for the hard work. No one asked what day it was.

After dinner, I cleared the plates, washed the dishes, and wiped down the table before returning to my room.

There was a message waiting on my phone screen. It was from my daughter.

"Happy birthday, Ma."

It was accompanied by a cake emoji.

I stared at that emoji for a long time. Finally, I replied, "Thank you, baby."

I put the phone down and went out to the balcony to bring in the laundry.