Dear Melina,

I’m beginning to realize the crafting of birthday letters should begin the day after your actual birthday so it will be ready for the year that follows because here I am, writing this birthday letter—the one I knew about since last YEAR—the day before your birthday. (Thank goodness you had to work today!)

Back to the topic at hand . . .

Eighteen. (Eighteen!) Like I’ve said before, I’m not sure how that happened because you were three just last Tuesday, accompanying me to the Southdale library, dressing as a unicorn for a trip to Trader Joe’s, and wandering through the house asking a lot of questions or posing excellent ideas for so many creative pursuits.

And now you’re officially an adult. Which seems suspicious.

You’re the last of my four children to reach this milestone. The baby. The caboose. The (somewhat) final chapter in a parenting saga that has featured equal parts laughter, frustration, doctor visits, misplaced items, Covid-19, trips to Walloon Lake, and enough grocery bills to fund a small nation.

When the girls turned eighteen, I thought, “This is the beginning.” With your brother, another chapter closed. And today, the book changes forever.

Don’t worry—I have absolutely no intention of becoming one of those mothers who dramatically wanders into your empty bedroom clutching your manatee while sad violin music plays. Actually, I just might, but I’ll wait at least a week.

One thing I’d like to point out on the occasion of your eighteenth birthday is that you have always been wonderfully, unapologetically yourself. It’s a trait I admire, and so do other people. Whether it’s the aforementioned unicorn costume or your stint of wearing hats or the grand entrances you somehow (you DID NOT get that from me) prefer, you do you. All the time. And with some flair. Which means your love of Lestat is natural. Instead of ogling people who live, work, or play near you, you developed excellent taste in morally complicated immortal vampires who spend centuries wrestling with guilt, love, identity, and really fabulous tailoring.

Honestly, I should have seen it coming.

But again, back to the topic at hand . . .

As you prepare for college—a place where all the notebooks, ideas, characters, and scenes you’ve carried around in your head finally get to breathe—I hope for a few things for you.

I hope you write stories that make people laugh until they snort.

I hope you write stories that make people cry without apologizing for it.

I hope you write characters who are messy, brave, funny, frightened, hopeful, impossible, unforgettable—and perhaps one or two centuries-old vampires who desperately need therapy. Most of all, I hope you never stop writing the story that is your own life. And, pay attention to the lessons life provides.

Fall in love, make mistakes, be curious, protect your imagination, say yes to adventures big and small and no to anything that wants to diminish you, be honest, be kind, and just keep being you.

Also, remember that when life inevitably becomes overwhelming—as it occasionally does—come home. I’m here for you. Daddy is here for you. The animals are here for you.

Thank you for making me your mom. Thank you for rounding out the quartet. Thank you for every laugh, every conversation, every eye roll, and every “Can I just say?”

I can’t wait to see how you write this next chapter of your life.

Happy Birthday, Sweetcheeks.

Love, Mom

P.S. I love you more than all the books ever written, more than every film ever made, and—yes—even more than Lestat loves Louis.

P. P. S. How would Lestat say Happy Birthday? Maybe with a song. Maybe with an evil laugh. Maybe with grand, dramatic, almost unhinged flair.

Photo of 18s by Lior on Unsplash. com.