Mom texted, “We can’t make your son’s birthday. Tight month.” I replied, “No worries.” The next evening, I saw photos. Bounce house catering mountains of gifts for my sister’s kids. My son whispered, “They always have money for them.” I didn’t say a word. I just canled this. At 8:47 a.m., my dad was knocking so hard the windows shook.

The text came on a Thursday afternoon while I was standing in the grocery store checkout line, trying to decide whether to put the name-brand cereal back and grab the generic one instead.

“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.