I stared at my phone. My mom’s text was blunt: “We can’t afford to get you a gift this year. Sorry, honey.”

I didn’t cry. After three years of this, I was used to it. No gifts for me, while my sister, Lily, received $50 each year like it was nothing.

On my 15th birthday, my parents claimed things were tight financially. I understood then, but it hurt more when Lily’s birthday came two months later, and they celebrated her with smiles and laughter.

Something was wrong. It wasn’t just the gifts; it was the attention. Whenever I tried to talk to them, they brushed me off. I’d join them in the living room, only for them to focus solely on Lily. I kept thinking I must have done something wrong, but I never figured out what.

The only people who cared about me were my grandparents. They always remembered my birthdays, bringing little gifts and taking me out to celebrate.

This year, I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. I just wanted them to see me.

My birthday passed without any acknowledgment. I spent the evening alone at home while Lily prepared for her own birthday today. She didn’t even mention mine.

This morning, I got another text from Mom: “We’ll be home at 3. Bring that cake you usually make.”

Every year, I bake a chocolate cake the day after my birthday, pretending it’s for Lily. It’s my way of feeling connected.

As I finished the cake, I felt a mix of exhaustion and frustration. I stared at it, wondering why I kept trying. This year, I wouldn’t play their games. I’d give them just one slice and eat the rest myself.

At 3 PM, I arrived at my parents’ house, heart racing as I knocked and stepped inside. I expected laughter, but the room was quiet. Then I saw them: Mom, Dad, Lily, and my grandparents, all wearing T-shirts with my face on them. Above it read, “Happy Birthday, Audrey!”

“What… what is this?” I stammered.

Mom stepped forward, tears in her eyes. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

Lily grinned, “Not today, Audrey. Today’s about you.”

I was stunned. “But… it’s Lily’s birthday.”

Mom explained, “We wanted to surprise you. We’ve been planning this for a long time.”

I felt a rush of emotions: confusion, hope, disbelief. I clutched the cake tightly, still processing.

Dad placed the cake down and said, “We’ve never forgotten you. We just wanted this moment to be perfect.”

“Then why didn’t you just tell me?” I asked, tears forming. “It hurt thinking you didn’t care.”

Mom’s voice trembled. “We didn’t realize how much it affected you.”

I finally broke down, the years of hurt unraveling. “I just wanted to feel like I mattered.”

Dad hugged me tightly. “You’ve always mattered to us. We’re so proud of you.”

In that moment, I felt relief wash over me. They handed me a small box. Inside was a shiny silver key.

“Happy birthday!” they shouted in unison.

I stared, stunned. “A… a car?”

Dad smiled. “It’s parked outside. We wanted it to be special.”

But the car wasn’t what I needed. “I just needed to know you loved me.”

Mom held me close. “We love you, Audrey. We’ve always loved you.”

As we embraced, I felt the weight of invisibility lift. It didn’t matter how many presents I received; all I ever wanted was to be seen.