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know, because at some point my legal name was changed back to its original—Bobby Estell, which it remains today.
    I wasn’t going to bother my poor grandmother, who let me sleep in her bed and kept a roof over our heads thanks to her Social Security checks, with a bunch of uncomfortable questions. I worried enough that it was hard for her to have a calm and peaceful life because she was forced to raise me and my sister. I didn’t want to make her life any more difficult. That worry was part of a larger anxiety I couldn’t shake, the sense that I shouldn’t be here at all, that I was a mistake. Maybe it was an overblown sense of self, but I felt responsible for my family’s problems. It started with my mom, who was never able to have a real life, because when you get pregnant at fifteen years old, how great are things going to get for you? In my book, she never had a shot.
    I felt guilty that my mom was stuck with me. When I first learned about adoption the way any little kid might (sitting in church, listening to adults talk), I wondered, Why didn’t Mom do that? The thought wasn’t marked by sadness or even judgment. It was just a logical question stemming from my surprise that she kept me. My guilt wasn’t consuming but a low-level irritation, like a small rock hidden somewhere in my shoe. It stuck with me my whole childhood, even through what were supposed to be good times, like my tenth birthday party.
    I didn’t have a lot of birthday parties growing up for a couple of different reasons. The first was the money issue. When your mom is stealing Manwich, there usually isn’t cash lying around to rent a bouncy castle. (Money, you’ll see, is a recurring topic in this book, and at some point in reading, I’ll understand if you yell at these pages, “WE GET IT, YOU WERE POOR!” But roll with me. It’s my book. And if you tell your friends about it, and they buy it . . . I’ll be even less poor!) My mom would always acknowledge my birthday with some kind of small celebration—usually just a cake. But when I turned ten it was a big deal to her, and she decided she wanted to do something special.
    In the days leading up to the big party (a theme party: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles), she was excited in a way I hadn’t seen before. Returning from the Dollar Store, where she’d gone on a major shopping spree, she unloaded bags with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle masks, birthday candles, paper plates, and napkins. She had also bought a mini wading pool and a bunch of plastic water guns.
    All the fuss seemed crazy to me, but Mom talked about how important it was that I was turning ten. “Double digits,” she said. “You’re hitting double digits.” What did that even mean? That I was old enough to take care of myself? Maybe.
    The party was held outside the Hot Springs house we were staying in with my grandma and a couple of cousins and was everything a birthday party is supposed to be. Food, cake, kids (mostly more cousins), water fights, balloons, and my mom running around and having fun. I was happy she was happy. But the party didn’t make me feel special; it made me uncomfortable.
    I don’t mind birthdays as a concept. I don’t mind getting older. But I hate birthday parties —at least ones for me. Other people’s parties are fine. I’m just not a big fan of any sort of thing honoring me. Dinners, breakfasts, whatever; I don’t like celebrations of me. I worry that people feel forced to attend (“We have to go; it’s his birthday ”), and I never want to be the one causing others to feel uncomfortable. I would rather do nothing than ask people to go out of their way for me.
    That’s how I feel now and that’s how I felt when I turned double digits. Even as I watched a boy from down the road stuff cake in his face and my sister spray the weeds with a water gun, I was sure I was