My dad lazes in the armchair while my brothers occupy one couch. I take the other, the worn leather cracking beneath my weight. Mom bustles away in the kitchen, spaghetti in the works once again. The same every year.

Today is my birthday. I am fourteen-years old, and it’s the last year everyone will be home for my birthday. Jake will leave for college next year, and then Zach, and nothing will be the same.

“Is it done yet?” Zach yells. It’s only four o’clock.

“Dinner is at 5:30, just like last night and just like tomorrow,” my mother answers. Her sigh spells exasperation, and I laugh. The same every year.

The dog scampers to my side—thick rope in his mouth—and persuades me to play with him. I do so half heartedly, because today is my birthday. I get to do nothing while everyone else works, just for today. The same every year.

Mom yells, “Dinner is served!”

Jake demands the biggest helping. Zach demands first serving. Mom reminds him the birthday girl always gets first plate, and Dad’s laugh is fonder than I’ve heard in weeks.

“I’ll take all of Zach’s helping, please,” I say, and he whines like the van’s squeaky brakes. The same every year.

The cookie bars cool on the counter as we plow through an entire pot of spaghetti. Jake is eager for more, then eager for dessert, just as he always is. I already feel nostalgia creeping up on me.

When we’ve finished, Mom finds rest. Dad falls back into the armchair, while my brothers occupy one couch. I take the other, my hand in the dog’s fur, eyes following the movie playing. It’s been the same every year.