Ava wanted to cry.
Right in front of her sat a cake—white chocolate and strawberry, perfectly frosted with delicate swirls—topped with thirty candles, their flames dancing and flickering in the dimly lit room. Thirty candles. No more, no less.
The soft glow illuminated the space, casting warm hues over the faces of her parents and her two best friends, Sienna and Juliet, as they sang the birthday song. It should have been a moment filled with happiness, yet the single tear that slipped from Ava's eye wasn't born from joy.
It was sadness.
The weight of thirty years pressed heavily on her chest, her life laid bare before her like an open book filled with chapters of struggle, loss, and relentless effort.
"Ava, sweetheart. Come here. Let go of your mother's skirt," Henry Langley called out gently, his voice soothing yet firm as he spoke in fluent Khmer.
But Ava didn't budge. Her tiny fingers clung tighter to Lina Langley's skirt, seeking protection from the unfamiliar faces surrounding her.
Who are these people? She wondered, peering from behind her small round glasses, eyes scanning the strangers curiously. They had all gathered to welcome her after the long flight, yet their pale skin, blond hair, and blue eyes were so unlike the faces she'd known in the refugee camp in Thailand.
A woman with a gentle smile leaned down and said, "Welcome to New Zealand, my dear."
Another crouched, her face soft as she asked in a language Ava didn't yet understand, "How old are you, little miss?"
Ava blinked, uncertain, then looked up at her father. Henry knelt beside her and whispered the translation in Khmer.
With hesitance, Ava lifted her hands and showed six fingers.
"Does she not speak English?" the older woman asked, glancing at Henry.
"I'm afraid not. I've only taught her a few basic phrases. We mostly spoke Khmer in the camp."
The younger woman nodded thoughtfully. "She'll adjust in time. School will help her settle in."
School.
That was a word she knew. Her father had taught her that one.
"Go back to where you came from, you four-eyed freak."
"Yeah, pancake face. We don't want you here!"
The words hit harder than the sharp tug on her pigtails. Ava's cheeks burned as she stumbled back, clutching her glasses before they could fall.
She didn't fully understand their words, but the cruel laughter and the sting of being pushed told her enough. They didn't want her there.
That night, curled up in her mother's lap, tears streamed down her face.
"Chantee, my dear," Lina whispered softly, stroking Ava's hair, calling her by her Khmer name. "Don't cry. You must be strong, my brave girl."
"But they pulled my hair, Mama," she sobbed. "They don't like me. Why can't we go back? I want to go home."
Lina held her close, voice tender yet firm. "Home is here now. I know it's hard, but you will find good people, kind people. And when you do, this place will feel beautiful too. I promise."
The next day, Ava returned to school with her head low, bracing for more cruelty.
But as another boy yanked her braid, a loud voice broke through the crowd.
"Hey! Leave her alone!"
A girl with pale skin, dressed all in black, marched forward, hands on her hips like some kind of tiny warrior.
"That's right! Touch her again, and you'll answer to me!"
Juliet Hale. The girl who looked like a tiny witch, pale as parchment, fierce as a storm.
From that day, Juliet became Ava's protector, her first real friend.
"I'm sorry, Ava, but I can't let you participate today," the PE teacher said with a grimace.
Ava's heart sank. She had been looking forward to this sports day for weeks, yet now she stood there in her worn-out sneakers, frayed at the edges and barely holding together.
"It's for your safety," the teacher added, glancing pointedly at the holes in the soles.
Ava felt the heat of humiliation creeping up her neck. She was ready to step aside when a quiet voice piped up beside her.
"You can wear mine. I brought an extra pair," a soft-spoken girl offered.
It was Sienna Brooks, a quiet blonde three years younger, known for her kindness more than her words.
Ava stared at the shoes being offered—clean, well-kept.
"Are you sure?" Ava whispered.
Sienna only nodded, and that simple gesture shifted everything.
That was how Ava, Juliet, and Sienna became inseparable—the three musketeers, facing the world together.
"Honey, I've been let go from my job," Henry Langley's voice drifted through the thin walls one evening.
Ava sat frozen at the kitchen table, her half-eaten rice and canned tuna turning cold.
"Oh no," Lina whispered. "What will we do?"
Henry's voice remained steady despite the worry in his eyes. "I'll find a way. We'll make it work."
But Ava could feel the tension tightening around them like an invisible rope.
That night, as her stomach growled quietly, she made a decision that would change her life forever.
They will never starve again. I won't let them.
The next day, she applied for a paper route, lying about her age to secure the job.
She ran every morning before dawn, folded papers in half, and saved every cent she earned. Her family came first, and she learned to stretch every dollar like it was her last.
When school expenses piled up, Ava found ways to make it work—buying secondhand uniforms, patching up worn clothes instead of replacing them, always making do with less.
By the time her thirteenth birthday arrived, Ava was ready for high school.
Her friends, Sienna and Juliet, slept over the night before, their freshly ironed uniforms neatly folded in their bags—pressed professionally, crisp and perfect.
But while they giggled, Ava stayed up late, pressing her own secondhand uniform with a faulty iron, smoothing out every wrinkle as best as she could.
She wasn't embarrassed.
She was proud.
Because Ava Langley had learned from a young age that strength wasn't measured by what you wore or how much money you had.
It was measured by the choices you made when no one was watching.
Now, as the candles burned low on her birthday cake, Ava stared at the flames, her heart heavy with memories.
The room was filled with love—her parents, her two best friends.
Yet why did she still feel like she had failed?
The past whispered louder than the present.
But maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop measuring herself by old scars.
And start believing she was enough.
Just as she was.