No one showed up to my birthday party.

The table, which was never set, was set for 10, complete with matching plates,matching napkins and matching gift bags.   The cake was huge, and store bought -- not one of those silly lopsided make-at-home things.  There were games like pin the tale on the donkey and the Bozo bucket toss.  But it didn't matter, because not one of my school mates came to wish me a happy birthday.

I would like to think it was the rain that stopped them all.  It was clear in the morning of my 7th birthday, but it did rain that afternoon.  It poured. There was no thunder or lightning.  Everyone lived in the neighborhood. The rain did let up after a little while.  But still, maybe they didn't come because of the rain.

Or maybe they knew the truth.  Maybe they knew my mom was the one who hung out on coroners for work on Saturday nights.  Maybe they knew my dad had a worked at a different kind of candy factory, not the one down Augusta Avenue.  Maybe they new about the pink and orange bottles of liquid that kept my parents out of jail and off the streets, most of the time.  Maybe they knew that in just a few short months, the police would comment that "it was like a drug store in there". 

I knew, even if they thought I was too young to understand. I knew what was going on. So if I knew, how could those parents of those other kids not know?  They had to know.  What made me think I could have a party?  What made me think I could be like them.  I could never be one of them.  I had secrets. Too many secrets. Maybe they didn't come to my party because they all knew my secrets.

Or maybe it was just the rain.