“When are Grandma and Grandpa coming, Mommy?” he asked for the third time. He was holding a plastic dinosaur, his thumb tracing its jagged spine.
“They’re busy, buddy,” I said, the lie tasting like ash in my mouth. “They had some things they had to take care of at home.”
He nodded. He didn’t cry. He didn’t throw a tantrum. He simply turned back to his friends, but I saw it—the way his smile dimmed just a fraction, a light being turned down by a slow-moving hand.
The party ended. The grass was littered with scraps of wrapping paper and half-eaten cupcakes. After the last child had been picked up, I found Mason in his room, surrounded by his new toys. He gave me a hug so tight it made my ribs ache.
“It was the best day ever, Mom,” he whispered.
I held him, blinking back tears. I wanted to believe him. I tried to hold onto that feeling of maternal success, the idea that I had shielded him from the sting of being a second-class citizen in his own family.
The next evening, the house was quiet. Jake was in the kitchen loading the dishwasher, the rhythmic clinking of plates providing a domestic soundtrack to my exhaustion. I collapsed onto the couch and opened Facebook, my thumb scrolling idly through the digital noise of other people’s lives.
That’s when I saw it.
The post was from my sister, Veronica. It had been uploaded only an hour ago.
“Best auntie ever! Threw my babies the party of their dreams. Huge thanks to Mom and Dad for making this happen!”
