Rachel had been counting pennies and promises for months to throw her daughter, Emma, a birthday she’d never forget. What she didn’t expect was the party down the block to crash and burn—sending the guests straight into her backyard of mismatched streamers, dollar-store crowns, and something money can’t buy: joy.
I knew something was wrong the second Emma stopped asking about glitter.
Normally, once the leaves began to scatter across the yard, she’d be knee-deep in birthday plans—scrawling guest lists on napkins, sketching balloon arches in the margins of her homework, taping “reserved” signs to the dining room chairs for her “party committee.”
That kind of joyful urgency? It’s who she is.
But this year… nothing. No countdowns. No doodles. No questions about cake flavors.
At first, I thought she was just remembering last year—the year I had to cancel her party because I picked up an extra diner shift I couldn’t afford to skip. Emma had smiled anyway.
