“Are they here, Mama?”
My heart broke a little more each time I had to say, “Not yet.”
By three o’clock, all his friends had arrived. The bounce house was full of squealing children, but my family? Nothing. Not a call, not a text—complete silence. I called my mother—straight to voicemail. I called my father—same thing. Tyler didn’t even have his read receipts on, so I couldn’t tell if he’d seen my messages. Bethany, who was twenty‑three and still lived at home with our parents, sent a brief text around four.
“Sorry, something came up.”
“Something came up.” That was it. No explanation. No apology to Lucas. Just those three words.
I smiled through the party, took photos, helped Lucas blow out his candles. But inside, I was dying. Watching him glance at the door every few minutes, hope fading from his eyes each time, was torture.
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