I felt sick.
Because they weren’t fighting about me.
They weren’t even really fighting about Martha.
They were fighting about their own mothers.
Their own childhoods.
Their own guilt.
Their own grief.
And Martha’s open expression—her happy tears—had become a battlefield.
That afternoon, I drove to Martha’s house without texting first.
I didn’t trust “fine.”
I needed to see her eyes.
She opened the door with a surprised smile that faded when she saw my face.
“Oh no,” she said quietly. “It’s worse than I thought, isn’t it?”
“Martha,” I said, stepping inside. “People are being… people.”
She nodded once, like she already knew.
“I saw it,” she admitted.
My stomach dropped. “You did?”
“My neighbor’s granddaughter showed me,” she said, cheeks flushing. “She thought it was… sweet.”
Martha walked to her living room and sat down slowly, like her bones had aged overnight.
On her coffee table was a printed sheet of paper.
She’d printed the photo.
Not the comments. Just the photo.
Like she was trying to hold onto the good part and pretend the rest didn’t exist.
“I look happy,” she whispered, almost to herself.
“You were happy,” I said.
She smiled faintly. “Yes. I was.”
Then her smile trembled.
“And then I read what people wrote.”
I sat beside her, careful.
Her hands were folded in her lap like she was in church.
“Some of them said I must’ve been a terrible mother,” she said, voice small.
I clenched my jaw.
“Martha—”
“And some said my kids are monsters,” she continued. “And some said you did it for attention.”
She shook her head slowly, overwhelmed.
“I didn’t know there were so many ways to be mean about a birthday.”
I swallowed hard.
“Do you want me to ask them to take it down?” I asked again.
Martha stared at the printed photo.
“I don’t want to disappear,” she said.
The words were barely audible.
But they hit me like thunder.
After everything—after being invisible at Table 4—she didn’t want to go back to that.
Even if being seen came with sharp edges.
“I just…” she breathed, struggling. “I didn’t want this kind of seen.”
I nodded, throat tight.
“I know.”
We sat in silence for a minute.
Then Martha’s phone rang.
She flinched like she’d been slapped.
I watched her look at the screen.
A name.
Her face went pale.
“Is it…?” I asked softly.
She nodded, swallowing.
“It’s my daughter.”
My heart kicked.
Because this was it.
This was the moment the internet never shows you.
Not the viral photo.
Not the comments.
The private fallout when people you love realize the whole world just watched you hurt.
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