My mother specifically told me not to celebrate my four-year-old daughter’s birthday because my niece’s birthday was a few days later. She said, “Your father has been building something for her precious granddaughter, and I want the whole family to focus on her because she deserves the spotlight.” My sister agreed. “Finally, someone’s being honest about my blood.”
So, I walked away that night and celebrated my daughter privately.
A year later, their favorite granddaughter realized I’d built the life they always wanted—and my sister couldn’t handle it. The phone call came on a Tuesday evening while I was helping Maya with her alphabet homework. My mother’s voice had that sharp edge I’d learned to recognize over thirty years of being her daughter.
“Rebecca, I need to talk to you about Maya’s birthday party.”
I should have known something was wrong by the way she said it. Not asking about plans, not offering to help bake a cake. Just that flat declarative statement.
“What about it, Mom? Her birthday is next Thursday. I was thinking we could do a small thing at the park with some of her preschool friends.”
The silence stretched long enough that I pulled the phone away to check if the call had dropped.
“Actually, that’s what I wanted to discuss. Your father and I think it would be better if you didn’t make a big deal out of Maya’s birthday this year.”
I sat down at the kitchen table, my stomach doing a strange flip. Maya was in the living room—completely absorbed in tracing the letter M over and over, her tongue poking out in concentration the way she always did when she was focused.
“I’m sorry, what? You think I shouldn’t celebrate my daughter’s fourth birthday?”
“Don’t be dramatic, Rebecca. I’m not saying don’t celebrate at all.
Just keep it small, private. Your sister’s daughter, Olivia, has her birthday three days after Maya’s. And your father has been working on something really special for her.
He’s been building this amazing playhouse in the backyard for weeks now. It’s got two stories, real windows, the works. He even installed electricity so she can have lights inside.”
My father had built something for Olivia.
My father, who had missed Maya’s first steps because he was at a work conference. My father, who had forgotten her third birthday entirely until I called to ask if they were coming to the party. “So you want me to skip my daughter’s birthday because Dad built Olivia a playhouse?”
“You’re twisting my words.
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