There were twenty-three photos.
I felt the air leave my lungs. I scrolled through them, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. It wasn’t just a party; it was a spectacle.
A massive professional bounce house shaped like a castle. A professional catering spread featuring a full taco bar and a chocolate fountain. Designer decorations that must have cost hundreds. Balloon arches in rose gold and cream that spanned the entire length of Veronica’s manicured lawn.
And then, photo number seven.
There was my mother, Margaret, wearing a new silk blouse I’d never seen, laughing as she held my niece. Beside her was my father, Arthur, holding a beer, looking relaxed and radiant, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
The date stamp was from that afternoon. The day after Mason’s party. The day after they were “too financially tight” to drive two hours to see their grandson.
My hands began to shake. The screen vibrated in my grip.
“Mom?”
I hadn’t heard Mason walk in. He climbed onto the couch beside me, his small shoulder pressing against mine. He looked at the screen. I tried to lock the phone, but I was too slow.
He saw the bounce house. He saw the balloons. He saw his grandparents.
