She glanced at the delicate box on the dining room table, meticulously wrapped in hot pink, which, of course, was her favorite color. She knew, immediately, before even opening the crisp white envelope placed next to it, who it was from. She smiled to herself, thinking of her aunt, who had managed, after all these years, to remember the small details she weaved into their conversations and how she paid equal attention to the important, unspoken ones as well.

She was sixteen today, after all. And aside from the unfortunate first date she went on months ago with the brooding, dark-haired, handsome young man she’d made eye contact with on the T one evening on her way home, convinced it was love at first sight, only to discover over coffee a few days later that his conversational skills were severely lacking, she couldn’t recall the last time anyone, other than him, of course, had asked her what her favorite color was. And even then, in spite of herself, and him, for posing such a question, she had lied, too embarrassed to admit to him that it was hot pink, lest he think less of her.

Hot pink was a color she had shied away from for years. When given the opportunity to choose a wall color for her bedroom, two winters ago, she had thumbed through Architectural Digest magazines and design websites, contemplating splashing her walls with a bright, fun, shade of pink.

“It’s much more mature,” her mother had commented over dinner one evening, when comparing the neutral shade she was considering to that of the lavishly pink one.

“It’s more elegant,” her father had added, eyeing the neutral sample she set before him.

“Are you going to ask for a red convertible, when you turn sixteen?” Her brother, Samuel, had asked. “You already look like Barbie, Claire. Now, you want to live in her bedroom? How cliche do you want to be?”

Of course, in the end, she had opted for a more practical, neutral color, but the day she returned home from school to find her bedroom renovation was complete, a pale blue shade donning her walls, she felt she had snuffed out a small part of her creativity. She realized in her choice, she had stifled a small part of who she was. The neutral color looked excellent, meticulously painted on the walls, but her mind wouldn’t allow her to so easily dismiss that perhaps the hot pink would have too. That Christmas, from Samuel, she had asked for a hot pink bathing suit for the summer, partially to annoy him, partially for her own joy.

Yet, there it was, sitting there on the dining room table. A small, perfect present, wrapped in hot pink paper. Of course, she already knew what was in it. She had known, for years now, that when she turned sixteen, her aunt would give her one of the three gold rings she wore everyday; one of the three gold rings she had worn everyday, for as long as Claire could recall. Which of the rings she was being gifted would be a surprise, but she knew, before even opening the present, that the ring would fit her perfectly. She knew, before even opening the present, that her aunt had gone to the trouble to have it resized. She knew, before even opening the present, that it would slide onto her finger, without a glitch.

And still, after all that, her aunt had known, without asking, that Claire still loved hot pink, and she had, in spite of her own distaste for the color, celebrated Claire on her sixteenth birthday and encouraged her, in the silent way that she often does, to always be herself. She had given her a sentimental gift. She had given her something that she would always treasure, but Claire smiled to herself, looking at the present, covered in hot pink wrapping paper, knowing that detail had meaning too.