I could feel it in my gut the second Emma stopped talking about glitter.

Usually, the moment autumn leaves hit the ground, she’d be knee-deep in birthday planning—drafting endless guest lists on napkins, doodling balloon designs in her math notebook, taping “reserved” signs to chairs for her imaginary “party committee.” That kind of joyful chaos was who she was.

But this year? Nothing. No countdown. No cake debates. No glitter requests. Just silence.

At first, I chalked it up to last year—the year I had to cancel her party because I couldn’t afford to miss an extra diner shift. Emma had smiled through it, saying, “It’s okay, Mommy. We’ll make next year even more fun.” But now, as her birthday crept closer, she barely even acknowledged it.

So I got to work. I scrimped. Grabbed every shift I could. Traded my morning coffee for quarters in a jar. Sold the earrings my grandmother had given me when Emma was born. Walked to work on sore feet, picturing her face when she saw her backyard filled with balloons, cupcakes, and the friends she’d been too polite to even hope for.

It wouldn’t be fancy. But it would be hers.

Then there was Laurel.

Her daughter Harper shared Emma’s birthday. Laurel—the kind of mom who floated around like a lifestyle influencer in a linen jumpsuit, perfect highlights, SUV with seats that probably had their own massage settings. Her idea of party favors looked like they belonged in a luxury gift basket catalog.Read More Below