At my father's birthdays I was always seven. I could arrive from work, with a partner, or with a bill for repairing my own roof, but after the cake he requested that little song. As a girl I mispronounced two words and made a serious face. The family laughed so much that for years I thought laughter was an obligation inherited with my surname. This year I said beforehand that I would not sing.
My father replied that I had become self-important. I said I had not; I simply no longer wanted to. His birthday was in a rented hall, with neighbors and former colleagues I did not know. I brought a gift, helped arrange flowers, and sat beside my partner. The evening was pleasant until my father stood with his glass and announced the little star who had saved him ever having to pay musicians.
I felt the expectation before everyone looked at me. My father was already approaching, gesturing for me to stand. I stayed seated. "I told you I wouldn't this year," I said loudly enough that he need not relay the answer. Someone called out not to be shy. My mother said it was only one short song. I was not embarrassed by the song. I was embarrassed that my hands still shook when repeating something a grown man had already heard.
My father said I had spoiled his birthday. My partner shifted in his chair, but I touched his hand. I did not need another man negotiating whether I should stand. I told my father I came to celebrate with him, not perform. One colleague changed the subject, asking where to order coffee. He made no speech defending me. He simply gave the guests something else to do with their eyes.
I stayed until the evening ended. Leaving angrily would have been easier than sitting while my father spoke to everyone except me. As I helped collect presents, he said it used to be our special thing. I replied that it had been, while I wanted it. I asked whether he knew any music I listened to now. He did not, but for once did not interrupt by claiming I was joking. Together we carried boxes to the car, without a reconciliation the guests could notice.
A few days later I sent him a song I liked. It was neither particularly profound nor suitable for a family party. My father replied that the chorus bored him. I laughed and wrote that it did not bore me. I still do not know whether he will try again next birthday. I know that, for the first time, we discussed something I listened to as an adult woman without anyone asking me to deliberately mispronounce the words.