On her eighteenth birthday, Miki woke to the tinkling of water in the downpipes. The music of rain on the roof had been her favourite sound at the farm. It reminded her of cosiness and warmth, the smell of bread and stew in the kitchen, the sweet aroma of baking cakes, trickles of rain running down windows. She wished Mother and Father were alive so they could see her today. But would they be proud? She wasn’t perfect, nobody was, but she had been as good to Kurt as she could. She had tried to smooth things for him, the way Mother had for Father. And she hadn’t complained, even when there had been a lot to complain about. Mother would have admired her for that.

It was early, but she showered and washed her hair. Out of habit, she started to plait it then stopped. She was eighteen and it was time for something different, a fresh start—she pulled her hair back in a ponytail. It felt strange to her unpractised hands, but looking at herself in the mirror she saw a glow of excitement. Girl yesterday. Woman today. Her eyes were lively and brimming with hope.

Kurt came out at six-thirty but didn’t say anything. She cooked breakfast, and placed it in front of him with coffee. All the while, she was hoping he would mention her birthday, maybe even comment on her new hairstyle. But breakfast spun out in silence, and she felt her spark fading. Kurt was buried in the newspaper, dipping his spoon into the porridge and lifting it absently to his mouth. She listened to the click of his spoon on the plate, the gurgle as he sipped his hot coffee. He had forgotten.

When his plate was empty she removed it. From the sink, she asked, ‘What are our plans?’

‘It’s Monday so we’ll go to the forest.’

‘And tonight?’

‘I’ll be in Hobart. You know the routine.’

She said, ‘It’s my birthday.’

He glanced at her, but his eyes were blank. ‘Is it? What’s the date?’ She told him, and he folded the newspaper. ‘So it is.’

She waited for him to say something more. Air locked in her throat as the moments rolled by. She remembered his eighteenth birthday. Chocolate cake with his baptism candle and singing to celebrate his transition into adulthood. Mother’s smile, bright and warm. Kurt looking serious. New lines of responsibility on his brow.

‘You could make a cake,’ he said eventually. Perhaps he was remembering too.

But bake a cake for herself on her eighteenth? Miki couldn’t speak.

‘Maybe a chocolate cake,’ he went on. ‘I like chocolate.’

Yes, she knew. ‘I wondered if maybe we could go out,’ she said.

‘We’re going up to the forest.’

‘Somewhere different,’ she tried.

‘I thought you liked the forest.’

‘I do. But it’s a special day. I feel more grown up.’