Friday,

Dear Diary,

Today is a day I despise most,my birthday,and I know you might say who hates their birthday?Well,I do! When I was young I was incubated for over 4 weeks and I almost died in the process.It was the day I lost my dear mother,I just wish I had someone like her... . Someone who would love me,cherish me,treat me like a fragile glass but nope the universe decided to take her from me.I wish life could be a perfect smooth path but nope,it had to be hard."Sophie, come downstairs!"my dad hollered,UGGHHH today is going to be a long day.I slipped up my fluffy unicorn slippers and headed downstairs looking like a blonde fairy dust mess.

I don’t hate my dad, by any means. I just don’t think he gets it, you know?

He made an effort when I was young, and don’t get me wrong, he still does: I just think he still gets his ideas on fatherhood from cheesy 80s flicks. Like today, for example. It’s my 14th birthday, right? So, I come downstairs, robe on, bonnet off, hair unbrushed and unbraided (which he compliments as a funky new ‘do), and find a massive gift sitting on the kitchen table. I skip over it, trying to be polite and wait for him to mention it first.

The kitchen stinks of bacon grease. Like, totally stinks. Usually, I love bacon, with pancakes, and maple syrup, exactly what he had made—but it just made me queasy. I stood next to him at the stove, pan sputtering hot oil onto my exposed arms, and tried to purse my lips together to not throw up.

“There’s the birthday girl!” He smiled at me, glasses slipping down his nose slightly. His dark skinned gleamed under the kitchen lights. He was sweating. He’d probably been stood by the stove for ages, cooking for me. He took a piece of bacon from the plate beside him, dangling it from his thumb and finger. “Want some?”

I shook my head, taking a seat at the kitchen table. “Not right now, dad.”

He frowned. “You loved eating the stuff I was cooking as I was cooking it. Once, we made pizza, and you ate all the pepperoni before it could go on the pie!”

I tried my best not to roll my eyes, pretending like I hadn’t heard the story a thousand times before.

“Well, here you go,” he said, placing a plate stacked high with pancakes and bacon. “They’re chocolate chip,” he winked.

I couldn’t look at the plate without retching. Suddenly, a wave of stabbing pain hit me right in the stomach, like my guts were being strained through a pasta machine. My eyes squeezed tight as I tried not to cry out. I’d had stomachaches before, but not like this.

“Soph? You okay?” My dad asked, suddenly concerned.

Then, it dawned on me as I looked down to the red stain on my PJs, every leaflet from health class, and every whisper from my friends about tampons and hot water bottles.

My dad didn’t know what to do.