On my son Ethan’s 10th birthday, I tried to make our tiny apartment feel like a celebration—balloons taped to peeling paint, a cheap chocolate cake, a stack of wrapped gifts from the dollar store. Ethan beamed anyway. That’s who he was: grateful, gentle, hopeful.
My husband, Mark, came home late, reeking of cologne that wasn’t his. He barely glanced at the cake. “You couldn’t even afford a real bakery?” he muttered.
I forced a smile. “It’s Ethan’s day. Can we just—”
He leaned in, eyes hard. “Stop embarrassing me.”
Leave a Comment