I sent my parents $550 every Friday so they could “live comfortably.”
On my daughter’s birthday, they didn’t even show up, and then my father said, “We don’t count your family the same.”
I opened my banking app, cut off their lifeline, and typed a message that would hit harder than any birthday song.
Marcus worked extra shifts until his hands cracked from cardboard, cold air, and warehouse dust.One night, he touched the bank statement.
We didn’t set extra chairs.
We didn’t leave an
unopened gift on the couch.
There were balloons.
Cake.
Music.
Marcus grilled burgers in the backyard.
Lily ran through the sprinkler with her cousins.
And when the sun began to set, she grabbed my hand.
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Best birthday ever.”
I smiled.
Across the yard, Marcus raised his soda toward me.
