The Party My Name Helped Pay For
I knitted a white baby blanket with a scalloped edge.
I put it in a gift bag with a card: “For you, little one. Love, Grandma.”
Then I drove 600 miles.
Their neighborhood looked like a brochure.
Lawns trimmed to the same height. Cars that whispered down the street. Houses built to impress strangers.
Their home was full of music, balloons, white flowers, and people dressed like they’d coordinated in advance.
The cake looked like sculpture.
A quartet played in the corner.
Then I saw Candace.
She looked beautiful.
And far away.
When her eyes landed on me, her smile dropped like someone cut a string.
She walked fast, took my elbow, and steered me to the porch.
Her whisper cut clean through the party noise.
“Mama, what are you doing here? You can’t be here.”
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