Chapter 2 - The Birthday Nobody AttendedThe worst part about being humiliated is that sometimes the person hurting you doesn't even realize they've done it.
Ethan's birthday began at eight in the morning.
He woke me by whispering, “Mom?”
I opened my eyes.
“Yeah?”
“Are we really having twenty-four people?”
I smiled.
“That's what you said you wanted.”
His face lit up.
He had spent weeks planning everything.
He wanted a police theme because he had decided he would become a detective someday.
He wanted blue balloons.
A chocolate cake.
A pizza party.
And he wanted his grandmother there.
That last part mattered more than anything.
Ethan worshipped my mother.
He had spent years believing she was the warm center of our family.
She wasn't.
She was the sun only when everyone else agreed to orbit her.
At noon, I sent one final message to the family.
“See you at Giovanni’s at 2!”
Mom responded with a heart.
Vanessa sent a thumbs-up.
Paul wrote, “Wouldn’t miss it.”
At 1:45, Ethan and I arrived.
The waitress had arranged the chairs.
The cake was waiting.
The balloons bounced near the ceiling.
Ethan kept looking toward the door.
2:05.
Nobody.
2:20.
Nobody.
2:40.
Still nobody.
At 2:47, Ethan stopped smiling.
“Maybe they're stuck in traffic.”
“Maybe.”
At 3:05, the waitress brought us two extra slices of pizza.
At 3:20, Ethan asked if we should cancel the reserved room.
I wanted to cry.
Instead, I said, “We're having a party.”
So we did.
Just the two of us.
He opened the gift from his teacher, a twenty-dollar envelope.
He bought the Lego police station with it.
When he finished building it, he looked at me.
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Does Grandma not like me anymore?”
I put down my fork.
“Why would you think that?”
“Because she likes Isabella more.”
I should have told him that wasn't true.
But I was tired of lying.
So I said, “Sometimes adults make selfish choices. It doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you.”
He nodded.
Then he went back to the Lego pieces.
That night, I found him asleep beside the unfinished police station.
I covered him with a blanket.
Then my phone buzzed.
Vanessa.
A family group chat message.
“Reminder: Isabella’s Sweet 15 is six weeks away. $2,600 per person.”
I stared at the message.
She continued.
“Mom says immediate family contribution is mandatory. No exceptions.”
My fingers trembled.
I typed:
“Is this a joke?”
No response.
I typed again.
“Ethan had his birthday today.”
Silence.
Then Vanessa replied:
“Don't start drama.”
Mom reacted with a heart emoji.
That was it.
Not happy birthday.
Not sorry.
Nothing.
I looked toward Ethan’s room.
Then I typed one final message.
“Congratulations.”
I sent $1.
And then I blocked them all.
It felt strangely peaceful.
Until 11:18 the next morning.
Someone tried my front door.
The knob turned.
I jumped off the couch.
No one entered.
But I heard the key scraping against the lock.
I opened the door.
Nobody was there.
Except an envelope on the porch.
No stamp.
No address.
My name was written on the front.
Inside was a single sentence.
You should not have sent the dollar.
I stared at it.
At first, I thought it was Vanessa.
Then I noticed the handwriting.
It belonged to my mother.
May you like
And beneath the sentence was another line.
You have no idea what that dollar means.
