They say you can’t choose your family, but I never chose to be born to people who looked at me like I was dirt smeared across the kitchen tile. From the moment I got pregnant at 19, the disgust in my mother’s eyes cemented itself like stone. My father didn’t even say my name for a year.
And when my son, Caleb, was born—my beautiful boy with the softest eyes—they called him “it” for the first six months. “Don’t let it cry near my room,” Mom would hiss. “I’m not raising garbage again.”
We lived in the back unit of their house.
It was supposed to be temporary, but five years later, we were still there, Caleb and I eating scraps while my sister, Marne, got steak and wine at every family dinner. I worked night shifts at the grocery store, came home at 5:00 a.m., slept in shifts, and folded laundry in silence while Marne bragged about dates and spa weekends. I never complained.
I just endured for Caleb. But last Saturday, it broke something in me. It was our neighborhood’s annual block party.
Everyone was outside, lights strung between driveways, tables of potluck food, folding chairs dragged onto the front lawn. Caleb had been so excited. He wore his little red hoodie and asked if we could bring the cupcakes we made together.
He carried the tray so carefully. When we got outside, Mom was already at the center table, pouring wine like she was queen of the cul-de-sac. She saw me and frowned.
“You didn’t do your hair?” she said loudly. “At least pretend you’re not the help.”
I smiled through it. Caleb went around offering cupcakes.
Everyone smiled at him, even the neighbors who usually pretended we didn’t exist. That made my chest swell a little. My son, doing his best to shine.
But then Caleb tripped. One of the cupcakes smeared on Mrs. Neely’s skirt.
Before I could even step forward, my mother’s hand was already out. Crack. The sound was sharper than I ever remembered.
Caleb stumbled back, clutching his cheek, blinking fast. There was frosting on his face. And my mother… she leaned down, grabbed his little hoodie by the collar, and hissed loud enough for half the neighborhood to hear, “Trash deserves it.”
And just like that, she let go of him and walked back to the dessert table.
She grabbed a slice of pie, took a bite. People stood frozen. Then they laughed.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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