My mom sent a text saying, “Skip my birthday. We need a break from your kid.” I didn’t argue. I simply turned around and took my baby back home. Two weeks later, when they found out we spent Thanksgiving at a private lodge with friends who flew us out, my mom’s first message was, “Why didn’t you tell us you were going there?” I got angry and replied.

Mom came in without perfume and without that brittle smile. She stood near the doorway like she was afraid she’d do something wrong.

Brinn carried a casserole dish and avoided my eyes at first. Kyle arrived last, hands in pockets, looking awkward.

Dad held Maisie first, then handed her to Mom only after asking me with his eyes.

Mom reached out slowly. “Hi, Maisie,” she whispered, like she was speaking to someone important.

Maisie blinked up at her and then—because babies don’t care about pride—grinned.

Mom’s face crumpled. She started crying quietly, holding my baby close like she finally understood what she’d almost missed.

Brinn pulled me aside while we did dishes.

“I’ve been jealous of you,” she admitted, voice low. “You always had it together. And when you had Maisie alone… part of me wanted you to fail.”

My stomach tightened. “Why?”