She often told stories about her family, her past. Once an argument ended when her father seized a lit birthday cake with both hands and hurled it out of the window.

She laughed as she told the story. To her it was normal. Every family had it, you know, angry confrontations, passionate arguments, tears, stamped feet, she explained.

How old were you? I asked.

Thirteen she said. It was my thirteenth birthday.

We fell silent, smoking our Charms cigarettes, sharing a flat coke as we gazed out of the window of our shared room in the hostel.

I thought about the thirteen year old, spending her first teen birthday without a cake.

It was easy to feel sad about that. It was easier to think about a cake hitting the sidewalk, its icing splattered on the road.

Yelling, shoving feet through cabinet doors, flinging raita on the walls is okay, I thought. Too much emotion, that’s all.

I did not want to think about my childhood. About the continuous criticism, the bite marks I had to hide from prying eyes, the punches that landed in my stomach, scalp so sore from hair being yanked hard that I could not comb my hair.

At least you guys loved each other, I told her.

She looked at me strangely.

You think? she said. All my friends witnessed that. I lost my desire to blow out birthday cake candles that day.

I wish my friends had witnessed some of it, I whispered.

We sat together in silent solidarity.

Sometimes, shared sorrow forges bonds that last lifetimes.

Sometimes sharing painful pasts makes us realize that we normalize it to make us believe it wasn’t that bad. Because if we saw the truth we would have to accept it and work through it. And that is even more painful