It was beautiful out—the sun dipping between the treetops, casting diamonds across the rain-damp grass of the meadow beyond the window. The air was cool but comfortable. I felt fresh, even optimistic, and actually woke up looking forward to the day.
That feeling lasted all of ten minutes.
I was making my bed when there came a knock at my door—just a polite little rap—and then, to my horror, a chorus broke out:
"Happy Birthday to you..."
I turned, eyes wide with dread.
There he was—my dad—dressed abysmally like Gollum, one of my all-time favorite movie characters. He was attempting an impression, if you could call it that, while simultaneously singing and trying to keep the candles on a plate of pancakes from completely melting the scoop of vanilla ice cream on top.
Of course he was wearing one of his Gollum suits. Bald cap and everything.
Behind him stood Kimi, holding a camcorder and grinning like she was recording a national treasure.
"Dad," I groaned, mortified. I was still in my Spider-Man onesie. I ducked behind a wall of pillows, hoping they could absorb the shame radiating from my body—and maybe hide me from future secondhand embarrassment.
But Dad didn't stop. If anything, he doubled down, grinning like he'd won the lottery. He was loving this. This was fun for him. I could already see it: a lifetime of blackmail footage queued up for every milestone birthday.
I was twelve. I knew things now. I knew girls weren't supposed to have burned-in memories of their father writhing around in a skin-tight Gollum suit, rasping "precioussss" like he meant it.
But I also knew the truth.
Ever since I was four, when I first cracked up at Dad slapping fish around during that infamous Gollum scene, he'd been chasing that laugh. He loved making me laugh. And for a while, I loved it too. We read The Lord of the Rings practically every night—until one day, I just... got tired of it.
But not him. He never got tired of being ridiculous. For me.
That's what happens when you get older—you grow up.
I was twelve now. That meant no more Barbies, no more tag, no more pretending to be a wizard or a horse or a secret agent. And definitely no more Gollum impressions. I was climbing the middle school social ladder. I had a reputation to protect. This—this—could never get out.
