Perched on a promontory of Punta Galera, the exact place where, seven months ago, she held your cinders in her long-fingered hands to entrust them to the dark waters, your Birdy had a pensive moment amidst a weekend of elated happiness. Hands on hips in her own peculiar way, elbows pointing backwards, I noticed this stance made her long arms look like wings. As I beheld her looking out over the sea, I tried to divine her thoughts. Was she contemplating her future as a sixteen-and-up individual, relishing the nearness of her friends, or simply letting her mind take a rest from the extended celebrations? Whatever it was, you must have been a part of it. I couldn’t tell if she was in pain, but she didn’t seem to require my help or comfort, so I let her be.

Your daughter, who so resembles you but at the same time is her own person more than anyone I know, has reached the momentous age of sixteen. Halfway on her way to legal adulthood, she can now officially quit school and get any body part pierced without my permission. Had we been in America, she’d be able to get her driver’s license, and the strangest thing is, that doesn’t even seem far-fetched anymore. Our once socially awkward and shy little girl is growing into a radiating human being: she is strong, independent and gorgeous. A force to be reckoned with.

Alas, we are not in California, so she won’t be driving a car for some time, and although Ibiza is treating us well, it isn’t Overveen either, where Robin would have hopped on her bicycle to be with her pals and celebrate reaching this landmark age, roam the streets of Haarlem and hang out at their school. Holland isn’t exactly in a festive place at the moment, with its recent lock-down and talk of mandatory vaccinations, but it’s home to one of the most important elements in her life right now: friends. Like her sister, our big girl isn’t a complainer, and only once did she voice the wistful realization she’d be celebrating her sixteenth birthday without her posse.

So as I was straining to figure out what gift would be special enough to honor this sweet age, a gift extraordinary enough to make the absence of her father on this day less prominently present, a crazy idea popped into my head. Facilitated by the rock bottom prices of Transavia tickets, together with Leone I conjured up a scheme to get Robin what we believed would make her even happier than a Tony Stark Funko pop : her friends.

At first, the idea seemed too wild to catch on, but after repeatedly prodding the collective helter-skelter teenage mind of the Whatsapp group Leone had created, we ended up with a batch of three amazing girls, who went out of their way to get a day off from school to embark upon this adventure. In cooperation with the high school in Haarlem and the girls’ parents, the whole plan seemed to materialize successfully when the deteriorating COVID-19 situation in Holland threatened to prevent it. All of us were so excited by the prospect of the ultimate surprise party, we awaited the press conference, in which the Dutch government would reveal the new measures for curbing the spread of corona, in uneasy anticipation. New measures were indeed installed, but when we learned that travel remained free from obstructions I heaved an emphatic sigh of relief.

Robin’s birthday started off quietly wonderful. We gave her one gift, with the promise that after school, in the afternoon, more would follow, and Leone handed her a special version of one of her famous flap book birthday-card fabrications, displaying some of Robin’s favorite actors: Scarlett Johansson, Florence Pugh, and of course, the only possible Loki: Tom Hiddleston. All Marvel actors, of course. Do others exist?

The sun was out (not a given on our Birdy’s birthday, it being the 2^nd of December) and she went off to school in cheerful spirits. During the day, I had my work cut out for me, prepping a party cum sleepover that, unbeknownst to Robin, would have to accommodate not merely our tiny family, but an additional five.

After school, we went home to pick up where we left off in the morning. Leone and I struggled to hide our steadily increasing excitement as the arrival time of her friends’ flight drew nearer. While we were having our threesome party, the accompanying parents loaded the band of exuberant girls into the rental car and headed over to our house. In the meanwhile, the presents Robin unwrapped were all very well received, and she was serenely happy with how her birthday turned out. She seemed very content and for a brief moment I wondered whether it had been a good idea to invite her friends over; I’d be throwing everything into disarray, moreover since the following week she was facing exams. But I dismissed these qualms, my once high-strung ambition regarding tests and grades having alleviated gradually since … well, perhaps since you passed away?  

As an apparent conclusion for her day, we put on a Marvel movie, something Leone and I thought would be an excellent stage for the arrival of the mystery guests. So when we finally received word the gang from Holland were in the vicinity, Leone, who had a sudden need to use the bathroom, in reality snuck out the back door to welcome the travelers. Everyone who was familiar with the plan wanted to see Robin’s face as she discovered who was at the door, so Leone had been assigned the function of camera woman. 

I went into the kitchen ‘to make tea’, leaving Robin nearest to the front door. So when the tentative and highly anticipated knock could finally be heard, me asking her to get it was obvious. “No idea who’s there, probably Pepe, the gardener. To wish you a happy birthday”, I chuckled, since he has a tendency to knock on our door at odd times, though not usually in the evening.

When Robin opened the door, she was beyond surprised. Her knees literally buckled with perplexity and she couldn’t believe her own eyes. But after the first seconds of stupefaction, delirious and emotional joy set in. The girls couldn’t stop hugging and jumping and laughing. It was magnificent and their happiness was like a wave engulfing everyone present.

So what appeared to be a nice but quiet cinematic end of her sixteenth birthday turned into an endorphin-powered party with dancing, singing and laughing. During a time where partying has become all but illegal, this kind of elation was greatly overdue and so welcome.

The girls stayed for the weekend, and every moment, whether we were showing them Ibiza’s natural wonders, having breakfast at Rita’s Cantina and tapas at El Zaguan, discovering Ibiza town, or simply on our way in the car, was bliss. Organizing it took a lot of time and preparation, but few of the things I’ve done in my life have been more worth it. It was Robin’s birthday, but the undiluted joy, not just in her, but in her wonderful friends as well, was my greatest gift.

Strangely enough, it was the first birthday since your death I didn’t approach with a sense of dread. I guess the whole operation help keep it at bay, but I hope (or do I?) it is an enduring change. As I was dragging the group of friends across the island, however, despair found me a few times. Setting them free to solve the Sherlock-puzzle in the town of Ibiza, mesmerized by their elation, my lonely gait away from them was heavy with your absence. How different, how lovely, would it have been to while away our time together, meandering the cobbled streets, having some coffee or lunch, waiting for these promising kids to find the perpetrator in their Cluedo-like quest. To relish their glee together. Oh how I yearned for you, my drawn heart paving the streets of Ibiza town.

And Punta Galera of course, will forever speak of you.  As I watched Robin listen to it, one of her friends, an intelligent and beautifully kind girl, stood next to me. Since she is familiar with the kind of pain Robin might be feeling (her own mother passed away four-and-a-half years ago) I told her that this was the place where we dispersed your ashes. Robin had told her, and briefly we spoke about her own life without a mother. She said that for a long time, it had been hard for her to show her sorrow, seeing her Dad so devastated. I read about this in the how-to-deal-with-loss book someone gave me when you died, and recognize it in our children, and as much as I tried to give them space to express their own grief, I think something similar happened in our household.  

I asked how it felt for her now. After contemplating the question a moment, she said, with tears in her eyes: “It changes. But it doesn’t really get better.”
Her answer made me sad, but in my heart I knew she was right, and I realized I have been telling our daughters a lie. It doesn’t get better. How can it? The only way it could, is if you would magically reappear. If, as a birthday surprise for Leone’s sixteenth birthday, I would manage to conjure up you.