Ever since I turned eighteen, I've fallen into a dead sleep for exactly twenty four hours on my birthday every single year. My parents said I had a rare neurological sleep disorder that flared up on specific dates. I believed it for ten whole years. Ten years of medication, ten years of doctor visits, ten years of endless medical tests. Every time I woke up, my family would be gathered around my bed. A half-eaten birthday cake would still be sitting on the table, and Mom, eyes red from crying, would softly say, "You fell asleep again." I cried over it before too. Thought life was just unfair. But this year was different. Because three days ago, while sorting through my grandmother's belongings after her death, I found an envelope. Inside was a trust document and a photograph from ten years ago. The photo showed my eighteenth birthday party.