Chương 3
At midnight, I opened the family group chat.
My mother had posted a picture of Lily asleep on the couch with the caption, Poor sweetheart has had such a hard week.
My thumb hovered over the screen.
I did not reply.
Instead, I walked into the kitchen.
The blue invitations were still upstairs, hidden in Ethan’s desk, but his birthday list remained beneath the fruit bowl.
Pizza.
Pepperoni.
Soccer ball.
Balloons.
Friends.
I read it twice.
Then I took the chocolate cake mix from the pantry and set it on the counter for morning.
For the first time in my life, disobeying my mother did not feel like rebellion.
It felt like parenting.
The next morning, I woke before the alarm and spent several seconds staring at the ceiling, waiting for regret to arrive.
It did, but it came mixed with something steadier.
I went downstairs in my socks, turned on the kitchen light, and found the cake mix exactly where I had left it.
By the time Ethan wandered in, rubbing one eye and wearing a T-shirt backward, I had flour dust on the counter even though the mix did not require flour.
He stopped in the doorway.
“You’re really doing it?”
“I’m attempting it.”
“That looks bad.”
“Thank you for your confidence.”
He came closer and peered into the bowl.
“You’re supposed to mix the eggs first.”
“You’re ten tomorrow, not Gordon Ramsay.”
“I’m nine today.”
“Then your opinion matters even less.”
He laughed, and the sound made the decision feel less reckless.
I handed him the whisk.
He mixed until batter splattered onto his shirt, the counter, and somehow the cabinet behind him.
We stared at the brown dots.
“You did that,” he said.
“Absolutely not.”
“You were holding the bowl.”
“You were operating the weapon.”
For twenty minutes, we were simply a mother and son making a lopsided chocolate cake before school.
Then my phone rang.
Dad.
I let it ring twice before answering.
“Morning.”
“Your mother says you sounded upset yesterday.”
My father always began difficult conversations by describing someone else’s feelings.
“I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He cleared his throat.
In the background, I heard a television announcer talking about traffic.
“Listen, kiddo, nobody is trying to hurt Ethan.”
I looked at Ethan, who was licking batter from the whisk and pretending not to listen.
“Then everybody is doing a remarkable impression of it.”
Dad sighed.
“Your mother’s trying to keep the peace.”
“Whose peace?”
“Allison.”
“No, seriously.”
I lowered my voice.
“Why does keeping the peace always mean Ethan gives something up?”
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s a question.”
He went quiet.
My father was not cruel.
That had been one of the reasons I defended him for so long.
He was kind in small rooms, generous when nobody was arguing, affectionate when affection did not require him to take a side.
But neutrality inside our family had always leaned toward whoever was most willing to make everyone miserable.
Usually that was my mother.
Sometimes it was Patrick.
Dad called it avoiding conflict.
The rest of us paid for it.
“You know your mother,” he finally said.
“Yes.”
“So why make this into a war?”
I looked at the cake pan.
“I’m not.”
“Well, good.”
“I’m having the party.”
The silence on his end lasted long enough for Ethan to look up.
Dad said, “You told your mother you agreed.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Jesus, Allison.”
“There are six kids coming over for pizza and soccer.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I actually don’t anymore.”
He lowered his voice.
“Your mother will take this personally.”
“That doesn’t make it personal.”
“She’ll see it as you deliberately disrespecting her.”
“I’m not raising Ethan around what she sees anymore.”
That sounded braver than I felt.
My stomach was already tightening.
Dad heard it too.
His voice softened.
“Kiddo, you don’t need to prove anything.”
“I’m not proving anything.”
“Then just wait a week.”
“It’s his birthday.”
“Kids don’t care about dates.”
Ethan put the whisk in the sink.
He walked out of the kitchen without looking at me.
I closed my eyes.
“Dad, he heard that.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I have to get him to school.”
“Allison.”
“I’ll talk to you later.”
I hung up before he could ask me to reconsider.
Ethan was putting books into his backpack in the living room with sharp, angry movements.
“Hey.”
He zipped the bag.
“I know dates matter.”
He shrugged.
“I know tomorrow matters.”
Another shrug.
“Your grandpa was trying to solve a problem without upsetting your grandma.”
“That’s dumb.”
“It often is.”
He looked at me then.
“Are you going to cancel it?”
“No.”
“Even if Grandma gets mad?”
“Yes.”
“How mad?”
There was no useful answer to that.
“Probably very.”
He considered this.
“Can she ground you?”
I laughed despite myself.
“No.”
“Can she call the police?”
“No.”
“Can she take your phone?”
“No.”
His shoulders relaxed.
“That’s not that bad.”
For a ten-year-old, adulthood looked beautifully simple.
I drove him to school and watched him disappear through the front doors with his backpack hanging from one shoulder.
Then I sat in the parking lot for another minute.
My hands were trembling.
I hated that.
My mother had not entered the car.
She was not standing beside me.
She had not even called back.
Still, my body behaved as though I had escaped something dangerous.
At home, I worked until noon.
One of the former clients I had emailed the night before replied and asked whether I could take over payroll twice a month.
The fee was not enormous, but I calculated it anyway.
Then I calculated it again.
One hundred eighty dollars a month.
Two thousand one hundred sixty a year before taxes.
Enough to replace part of the money I kept telling myself I could not survive without.
May you like
I accepted.
At twelve-thirty, I drove to a discount store and bought blue balloons, paper plates, plastic cups, and a soccer-themed tablecloth that looked as though it had been designed in 1998.
