Miriam slows the car to peer through the glass windows of the new little shop next to the butcher. A new toy store, hmm. Aidy was whiny today; she kept asking for Mommy. She checks her watch, deliberates for a tense moment, then skids into a parking space and hops out.

Purple is everywhere; mauve walls and fluffy carpet, neat shelves trimmed with purple crystals. A little lady in a cream dress oozes welcome. Miriam smiles politely and ducks into an aisle. This is clearly not the place to pick up a rubber duck or teddy bear for a few dollars. But the air is sweet, reminiscent of vanilla, the toys arranged like a work of art. She turns to finger the miniature strollers, outfitted in fine canvas, carved with more finesse than any baby carriage she ever pushed.

She pads down the aisle, wistful. Her fingers caress the cherubic faces and long shiny hair and she thinks of a long-ago shelf that Daddy tacked opposite her day bed, the row of porcelain faces with rosebud lips, glassy eyes, rich curls, and gowns spilling velvet and lace over the shelf’s edge. Miriam smiles. She’s come a long way since then, when every doll was hers, every whim indulged, every thought listened to and waved away with a kiss. She sighs lightly.

No, she does not want to go back there. All the wisdom of the world had seemed to swirl around Bina and Esther and Rikki, the three big girls. Miriam could only watch and be patted and smiled at, the adorable baby who must be sheltered. It is better now, with her older sisters calling for her babke recipe and a listening ear.

She turns down the next aisle and stops. Dolls, tens of them, in silk dresses with lacy cuffs and pearl buttons. Creamy complexions stare at her, ruby lips offering the subtlest smiles, red and gold and chocolate locks cascade past dainty shoulders. She takes a step closer, tentatively, and — there is Lydia. The little china-faced beauty she had loved for more years than she would admit. Rikki had told her Lydia was a funny name — why not name her Libby or Sara or Bracha? But the name on the box said Lydia, and Miriam hadn’t the heart to call her anything else.

She sucks in her breath and closes her eyes. Lydia had come wrapped in silver-and-pink sparkly paper and trimmed with gauzy ribbon. The old chandelier spilled rainbow crystals across the dining room table. The scent of Ma’s fruity perfume, the lingering smoke on Daddy’s breath as he reached over and hugged her tight, so tight she could hardly breathe.

Something buzzes in her pocket. Miriam blinks and fishes for her cell phone.

“Mommy, are you almost home?” Dudi wails, “I can’t find my helmet! I’m going out w—”

“Don’t go anywhere without your helmet.” Her eyes float back to the display of dolls.

“…I’ll be home in ten minutes.”

She looks at Lydia again, achingly familiar, those red-gold curls and heart-shaped lips. It’s my birthday next week. She chuckles under her breath. Her tenth birthday celebration had been… nice. Beautiful, even. The love and tenderness and affection as thick as the icing on Ma’s lemon custard cake. She shakes her head, nods at the honey-and-roses-saleswoman, and escapes to the bland, familiar protection of her Sienna.

Okay, so a birthday party would be nice. But, Miriam, you’re a big girl now. It’s not like nobody appreciates you nowadays.

I know, she tells herself and firmly layers lists of caterers, confections, and bris paraphernalia over fluttering images of a doll with heart-shaped lips and emerald eyes.

Miriam is a calendar person. With the kids finally off to school and Aidy playing at her feet, she massages her throbbing temples and fixes a humongous cup of coffee. She inhales, feels the magic touch of brew in her throat, warming her lungs. Aaaah. This is how she likes it, plain and strong and authentic. The boys favor hazelnut and vanilla and the girls dress their coffees with cinnamon sticks and chocolate syrup. Privately, she thinks they’re missing the point.

She takes her mug to the kitchen table and fondly reaches for her large, battered calendar. She skims the rows of checkered boxes… vachnacht and bris are etched in red marker and circled. The day before that, on Tuesday, she’ll have to sit still at the sheitelmacher, then it’s off to Dr. Green for Mindy’s root canal. The little box on the Monday following the bris looks at her, clean and white. January 25. She looks up, half-smiles. Her birthday. It deserves to be marked, no?

In the privacy of her little kitchen, Miriam goes pink. So what if she wants a birthday party? She shakes her head. How embarrassing. It’s not like Yechiel never remembers the day. He usually buys her a nice card, or something practical she needs, like a new apron or a pareve knife. And she’s just fine with that. She turns back to her calendar, but Lydia sets her elegant gaze on her and Miriam feels the cold, smooth porcelain of her skin beneath her fingers. Daddy hovers around and beams while Esther props a crown on her head and Ma takes pictures. She wonders when was the last time she celebrated her birthday.

She looks down at her fingers. Your family today has different ways of showing their love; they don’t have to make lavish parties.

I know, Miriam tells herself, but she catches a whiff of the soup bubbling on the stove, thinks of the vegetables to be peeled and saut?ed, of the shirts waiting at the cleaners, and her daughter waiting for lunch, and the caterer waiting for her call, the tablecloths that need ordering and the growing pile of button-less shirts in the laundry room. Suddenly, her yearly birthday card seems a little pale.

She picks up her red marker, writes “birthday” in block letters, and circles it. Then she pushes the calendar aside.

No one, it seems, shares Miriam’s affinity for the big calendar, displayed prominently on the wall next to the kitchen table. But there are too many things to do and Miriam hasn’t the time to scheme up plans to alert the family about her upcoming birthday. Not that she wants to, anyhow. To have to tell them, to ask for a party, would kill the whole point.

So Miriam and the girls bake cookies for the bris. The sun dips outside and the lights glare in the crowded kitchen. They experiment with cute cutters, dusting cookies in blue crystals and tiny edible pearls. She keeps an eye on the younger boys, who are sprawled on the dining room rug, plastering “mazel tov” lollipops to crackly bags of chips.

She serves a peanut butter sandwich to Aidy and cuts up a bag of potatoes, arranges them with a dozen chicken bottoms in a pan, and dusts the whole thing with paprika and garlic powder. Yechiel will be home soon and he’ll be hungry, simchah notwithstanding. Her heart fills; everywhere is laughter, elbows, and cinnamon. The calendar sits on the wall and nods at her, mute. She tenses.

Thump, thump, whack! Thump, thump.

“I hear someone at the door!” Mindy sings, dropping the cookie cutter and scurrying to the foyer. “It sounds awfully like Dovi and Shua.”

“Hello!” Rina sails into the kitchen, little boys tumbling at her knees. She deposits her pink bundle in the ever-present infant seat.

Miriam smiles. “Welcome to the madness, darling.” Slippery potatoes in her fingers, she bends down to plop a generous kiss on each little boy’s head.

“We came to help,” Rina says, pushing up her sleeves while the baby starts to squirm. She sidles over to her mother and holds open a small shopping bag. “Look,” she whispers.

Miriam peers into the bag. A colorful tablecloth, napkins, cups… pointy happy-birthday hats?

“Aren’t these adorable?” Rina murmurs, eyes flicking in the direction of the living room where the little ones play. “I picked up the whole thing for $4.99. They’re a set — a Mickey Mouse collection. I saw on the calendar that there’s a birthday coming up.” She looks up at her mother and beams. “Whose birthday is it, by the way?”

Miriam chews her lip. Er. “Well, I do like Mickey Mouse…” She shakes her head and shrugs, looking sheepish. “It’s my birthday, honey.”

Rina throws her head back and chortles.

“What’s so funny?” Dassi looks up from mixing something thick, green, and gross-looking.

“Look what I got for Mommy’s birthday!” Rina cackles, spilling the colorful contents of her bag onto the island counter. She turns to her mother. “Really, Ma, you should’ve written ‘my birthday.’ How was I supposed to know?”

Miriam shrugs again and smiles weakly. Something tightens in her chest, tight and hot and embarrassing.

“We should do something nice for your birthday, Ma. You know?” Mindy says.

“Yes,” Rina says firmly. Her baby squeals. “Yes, we ought to do something sophisticated.” She casts a look at her Mickey Mouse collection of paper goods and grins.

“Well,” Miriam says because she cannot think of anything to say.

Baila smooths the last of the fondant on a cupcake. “Like, we should go out to eat.”

“Just us girls.” Rina reaches for the baby. “And Tatty, of course. No, Ma? Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Let’s go to Caf? Marseille!” Mindy cries. “You know that new place across from Gold Pharmacy? The food there is supposed to be out of this wooooorld.”

The girls beam at each other, then look at their mother with indulgent smiles and puppy eyes.

Miriam’s heart tickles, faintly pleased, even as it beats a nasty, little rhythm. So you’ve got yourself a birthday party, dear. Happy? The worst part is, she really is.

“Well,” Miriam says, a little roughly, and directs the crew back to work.

All day long, molten chocolate rivers, puffs of cream and mozzarella and juicy mushrooms have been wrangling and tugging with scornful sniffs. Miriam passes a hand over her eyes. She is going to order Penne la Vodka or maybe Fettuccine Alfredo. Or maybe both. Her stomach tickles happily.

She hums as she empties the last of the cornflake crumbs into a shallow dish and selects a cold chicken strip from the bowl of rinsed cutlets. She dredges the cutlet in beaten egg. So you’ll have a birthday party. Yay for Miriam. She sets the breaded cutlet onto the oil-sprayed cookie sheet a little hard and frowns. Really, why does she need this all of a sudden?

I want to be appreciated. I want them to care.

She looks up, in the fleeting silence of her pre-four-o’clock kitchen. Miriam. It’s not like nobody appreciates you. You know they care!

I know, but still. Lydia looks at her with bright eyes. Miriam thinks of chocolate souffl?s and fancy drinks and feels reassured. She smirks and reaches for the next piece of chicken.

I wonder how we’re going to do it. Rina must have arranged for a babysitter… Should we walk or take the van?

Bang. Four o’clock.

Miriam smiles and serves and clears, with the grace and resonance of a mom who loves to give. Images of crusty mozzarella sticks, combined with smiling, grateful faces, love and sweetness swim at the back of her head. She inhales anticipation, then frowns and forces her mind back to Nossi’s math problems.

Baths are run and tooth-brushing begins and Miriam wonders, with a stab of angst, what the big surprise will be. Baila and Mindy and Dassi have been exceedingly nonchalant all evening and she hasn’t heard from Rina yet. Soon, the last of the little ones are coerced into bed and the frisson of angst bubbles a little.

At quarter to nine, Rina calls.

“Hi, Ma! What’s doing? I had such a busy day, I don’t think we spoke yet today, did we?”

“No, I don’t think we did. How are you, Rina?”

“Good, good.” Rina sighs, languidly, and launches into a blow-by-blow description of her day. Miriam listens. A coil winds itself around her heart, looping around and again, tight. Rina has forgotten.

She forces herself to respond. So the girls had this great idea in the midst of simchah frenzy and neatly let it slip. Her ears are hot and her tongue is sandpaper. How… how horrible. Here she is, fantasizing like a five-year-old all day, and they forgot. How… abjectly… mortifying.

“Hello, Ma, you there?”

“I’m here, I’m here.” Miriam coughs. “Listen, Rina, things are a little hectic here, can I call you back later?”

Rina answers from somewhere far off. “Sure, Ma. Good night!”

The phone clunks down on the table. In the distance, Miriam hears the hum of a blow dryer, Dassi and Baila debating something loudly. A cry from upstairs. She closes her eyes.

Is it too much? To want a little… a little, um—

Miriam opens her eyes. Really, Miriam, what do you want?

The digits above the stove gleam green — 9:11. Thick, velvet chocolate glistens in her mind’s eye and she swallows, hungry and disappointed. What does she still have to do tonight? Her mind ticks off the day’s winding list; throw together the peanut butter granola bars the kids love, replace the missing button on Mindy’s favorite sweater, help Dassi with her book report. Oh, and the dishes in the sink, and probably ten loads of laundry, and what’s for dinner tomorrow, hmm?

Miriam stands, nerves fizzing and jangling inside her. She finds Yechiel in the study. “I’m going out a little,” she says lightly. He looks at her with a question. She shrugs, mumbles something about the mild weather, and slips away.

A quick comb of her sheitel, a dab of lipstick, a handful of instructions tossed in the girls’ direction. She slips on her coat, slings her evening bag over her shoulder, and steps out.

The night is cold and the moon distant. She walks in the semi-darkness of a city night, the air sharp in her nostrils, fingers going numb inside the woolly warmth of her pockets. She stops and looks up at a burgundy and black sign, swirled with elegant lettering. Caf? Marseille.

It looks fancy, even from the outside. Something cold and rootless slithers in her gut. She licks her lips and walks inside.

Dark walls massaged in soft lights beckon her, the pleasing tinkle of glassware and murmured conversation. She asks for a private spot and a sanctimonious waiter appears, propels her in the direction of a small table in the corner. He is grave and courteous and Miriam has to strain her neck to see his face. With a flourish, he proffers an embossed menu.

“Here you go, madam. I’ll return shortly.”

“Yes,” Miriam whispers. She breathes in the warmth, her stiff fingers caress the soft, fine leather. She opens to the dessert section. She spots it instantly; Chocolate Souffl?, molten chocolate cake, freshly baked, with…..

She looks around for the waiter. She will tell him she wants a chocolate souffl?. A chocolate souffl? for one. Something crumples inside her. She doesn’t want this stupid chocolate souffl?. She wants, she wants—

Her fingers scramble for a napkin, for the pen nestled in the inside pocket of her bag. She feels the papery roughness of napkin beneath her and holds her breath.

Dear Miriam, she writes. She shakes the pen, urgently. It is forever low on ink.

We just wanted to tell you that you’re a really great mom. You’re a wonderful, giving person and you’re always thinking about us, helping us, and making us happy. We love you.

Automatically, her hand scratches to the bottom of the napkin, about to draw a big heart, shade it with a squiggle and write: Rina, Shira, Dassi, Baila, Mindy, Dudi.

Tears tickle the corners of her eyes and she throws the pen down on the table. What’s the use? None of them ever wrote this letter! She sucks in her breath, scrolls over the scribbled words again. Her breathing slows. She clasps her hands together and closes her eyes.

“Madam? Are you ready to order?”

Her eyes snap open. She cranes her neck to look at him. “I’ll have a chocolate souffl?, please,” she says crisply. “With the birthday sparkler. Thank you.”

He must think her deranged, but thankfully his face is bland as ever. Like a gentleman, he nods and sweeps off.

When the souffl? comes, Miriam pauses in her little corner of the restaurant and watches the flickering sparkler. She gently waves it out, presses a fork into the moist, rich goodness. It is creamy and heavy and… and delightful.

She sets her fork down, warm and full. She reaches for the napkin, lingers over each line.

It’s okay. They all love and appreciate me, even if they can’t express it the way I’d like them to. It’s okay. I… I can have myself a birthday party. I deserve it.

She picks up the pen once more, draws a large heart on the bottom right-hand corner of the napkin, shades it with a squiggle.

You’re the best, she writes.

Love, Miriam.