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I like birthdays. I likefuss（大惊小怪）, a grand gesture. X can't understand the fuss. It's about upbringing, I think: his parents unceremoniously hand him something – not even wrapped – at some point within a few months of the date. I'm fairly sure they don't know when it is. For me, birthdays mean surprises, parties, over-excited children blowing out candles on sponge cakes. Like pencil marks on the wall, they are the backbone around which you hang family rituals. Birthdays are also a way to make up for the failings – perceived or real – of the past 12 months. We didn't have the stomach for the last round. Absorbed in our own misery, X and I lumped the boys' birthday parties together, a swiftlyexpedited（加快，派出）afternoon in a soft-play centre, a swiss roll with candles. It's hardly the stuff of misery memoirs, but it made me sad. Now a year has passed and birthday season is upon us, for the first time as a separated family. The boys' birthdays are close together and it feels like a milestone; I want to do it right. On top of my normal birthday fixation, I know the last weeks have been very hard for the children. I am scarcely mother of the year at the moment: I have made no headway in trying to find a new job, which scares me stupid, and am still bruised and shocked from the accident. My temper is short and I cry a lot. I've seen a naked look of worry in the eldest's eyes and felt powerless to make it go away. | 
