And eat it, too

For the first time in my 22 years of life, my aunt didn't make my birthday cake.
The tradition began with a cake in the shape of a turtle. Then a Cookie Monster cake for my second birthday. Followed by carnival scenes, ballerinas, unicorns and other fantastical themes during my single digits. Then the cakes started to highlight parts of my life that were important at the time of each passing year: a dance recital, marching band, books, journalism, a trip to London and even a cake splattered with Cs, Hs and Os during the summer I took organic chemistry (even though I don't think that class was that important to me).
Every cake was a surprise, something my aunt thought about and planned for weeks ahead of time. Relatives crowded around the door every year to get a glimpse of her masterpiece. A birthday wasn't a birthday until "Auntie" and her cake had arrived. But this day came and went without one.
The deal is over. Twenty one cakes in 21 years, that was the arrangement. I'm not sure who made the rules, I've just always known them. A cake each year until after I'm 21, until I'm grown up.
So it was strange today to open the door to see my aunt with presents in hand, but no cake. Maybe even more strange to think about what that means. I'm grown up. It's true that you always think an age is old until you're there.
Don't worry, it wasn't a cakeless birthday. My mom took over the duties rather well with a tropical ice cream cake. No decorations, just frosting and coconut shavings.
So here's to a life of "grown-up" cakes, wishes come true and life at 22.