ing in the oven.

Ironic as it is, Mother, whose business was baking cakes for other people, and whose birthday cakes won high praise, had never once in my life baked a birthday cake for me.

Oh how my joy rose and I was singing all over, my head, my heart, my entire body was rejoicing, when I actually smelled the wonderful aroma of a cake baking in our oven! How wonderful! I thought. I'm finally going to have a birthday cake all my own!

I believed that even though Mother hated to remember my birthday, because on my very first birthday my Father had deserted the family, even soat last she had decided to let my birthday be celebrated the way "Bet there'll be ice cream my sister's always was. for me too," I sang to myself. "I'm going to have a birthday dinner-just like everyone else."

I ran to the refrigerator and opened the door. I looked into the ice cream department. And there it was, strawberry ice cream! I decided not to look into the oven and peek at my wonderful, good smelling cake. I'd wait and let it be a big surprise. As I ran into the yard, full of love for Mother because she had remembered my birthday, I began to play a game. A guessing game. What kind of cake was my first birthday cake? Chocolate? Cocoanut? Or maybe Mother had colored it strawberry pink to match the ice cream?

But the dream died a horrible death... That night at dinner I didn't get any ice cream... And the cake was not there at all...I couldn't believe it when I learned that both had been refreshments for The Ladies Circle which met with Mother that afternoon.

"There was a piece of cake left," Beth told me. "But it wasn't for you, Melba," she said with childish cruelty. "Mother sent it to Mrs. Pike, who has a lame leg and couldn't come to the meeting."

My shock and grief were overpowering. I had to talk

about it. Even though I never felt close to my sister, I had to share the big ball of pain inside me with some one. So I confessed,

"I-I thought the cake and ice cream were--were for my birthday."

"You silly kid!" Beth cut at me. "You ought to know we never celebrate your birthday. Mother never wants to remember it-because-"

"I know," I said, aching all over, inside and out. "Because Daddy ran away and left us-the day I was born. "Then I clenched my fist. "But I never had any. thing to do with that. It isn't fair! My never getting a birthday cake." Then tears ran from my eyes and sobs burst from my throat. For a nine year old this moment was hell.

Did my sister take me in her arms and comfort me? No she did not.

My sister looked at me without pity and said, "You cry baby. Go ahead, bawl your eyes out!" And she skipped from the room.

For an hour afterward I still seemed to hear the echo of the door slamming after her.

Now, as I faced my family at breakfast, on my eighteenth birthday, I turned a key in the lock of the door of memory. I couldn't bear to review any more of the familiar disappointments and sorrows that were stacked within that storage room of the past.

No one was going to say "Happy Birthday" to me. I lowered my eyes and ate my breakfast.

Mother and Beth were discussing new fashions in dresses and shoes. Hal had picked up the morning newspaper and was reading.

I excused myself and left the table. Then I felt a ray of hope. Somebody would say Happy Birthday to me. If I told Jan it was my birthday, she'd say it. I knew she would. My feet had wings as I went to the telephone and swooped it up.