“Elena, honey, we can’t make Mason’s birthday. Really tight month financially. I’m so sorry.”
I stared at the message longer than I should have.
Mason was turning seven.
Seven is old enough to count candles. Old enough to remember who showed up. Old enough to notice who didn’t.
I typed back the same thing I always typed.
“No worries, Mom. We understand.”
And that was the problem. We always understood.
For three years, I had been sending my parents eight hundred dollars every single month. Thirty-six months. Twenty-eight thousand eight hundred dollars. I knew the exact number because I’d done the math more than once, usually late at night when sleep wouldn’t come.
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