She hugs me from the back, cheeks pressed to the middle of my back. I feel her warmth before I see her. When I turn and kiss the top of her head, she looks up at me, still short, barely reaching my chest, face cherubic and entirely pleased with itself.

This child has been counting down to her birthday since the last one. She emails me links to things she wants, needs, and craves. I got her an iPad, a replacement for the one that has lived a full life. My sister-in-law sent money, which promptly materialized as an Amazon link for a hair curler. Every cash gift gets traded for a Sephora card.

All of twelve, she has decided opinions on skincare, food, and dance challenges.

“Can I have friends over for a movie night?” “Can you take me to Five Below?” “Can you…” arrives like a refrain, and I hope it never stops. If the older two girls were celebrated because I was reveling in being a mother, the youngest one demands I celebrate her. She is loud, insistent, and unabashed in what she wants.

Pattu has promised her Starbucks. Her gifts are still in their brown packages. Tomorrow, she turns twelve. She has been ready.

Happy birthday, Laddu!