I don’t feel any different when I wake up on my eighteenth birthday. I don’t feel older or mature or free. I feel inadequate, if anything, because I know what I was supposed to be at eighteen and it’s not what I am. My dad’s brother, my uncle Jim, got really down with himself when I was fourteen and he came to stay with us for a while to “reevaluate.” My mom said that it just happens sometimes when you get older. You get halfway through with your life and you realize you haven’t done the things you wanted to do or become what you thought you’d become, and it’s disheartening. I wonder if she knows how disheartening it is when you get to that place at eighteen.