Except they never got back on their feet. Or rather, they seemed to be perpetually on the verge of stability but never quite reaching it. There was always something—another unexpected expense, another crisis, another reason why they couldn’t quite manage without my help.
I never questioned it. Questioning felt like doubt, and doubt felt like betrayal.
Lily’s fifth birthday was three weeks away, and she’d been talking about it non-stop for months. At four, she hadn’t really understood the concept of birthdays beyond “cake and presents.” But at five, she grasped that this was her day, a celebration of her specifically, and she approached it with the gravity of planning a royal coronation.
“Can we have a princess theme?” she asked one evening while I was making dinner—spaghetti again, because pasta was cheap and could be stretched into multiple meals.
“Of course, sweetheart,” I said, stirring the sauce. “What kind of princesses?”
“All of them!” she declared with the absolute certainty of a child who hasn’t yet learned that compromise exists. “Every single princess that ever was.”
Marcus, who was sitting at the table helping her with a coloring book, grinned. “That’s a lot of princesses, Lily-bug. Our apartment might not be big enough for all of them.”
She considered this seriously. “Okay. Just the good ones then.”
“Deal,” Marcus said, winking at me over her head.
We’d been planning the party on a tight budget—which was to say, we’d been planning it on almost no budget at all. I would make the cake myself, chocolate with pink frosting because that’s what Lily wanted. We’d get decorations from the dollar store. I’d already started crafting paper crowns for party favors, sitting up late at night after Lily was asleep, cutting and gluing while watching episodes of old sitcoms on the free streaming apps.
The guest list was small—six kids from her kindergarten class, their parents, and my parents. That was it. Marcus’s parents lived three hours away and were dealing with his father’s recent knee surgery, so they couldn’t make it. But they’d already mailed a present and called to apologize profusely.
My parents, though. They’d be there. They had to be there.
“Make sure you tell your mom about the party,” Marcus had said when we first started planning. “Give her plenty of notice so she can’t say she forgot or had other plans.”
He said it casually, but I heard the edge underneath. Marcus had never particularly liked my parents. He was too polite to say so directly, but I could tell. He’d witnessed too many of my mother’s backhanded compliments, too many of my father’s silent, enabling nods. He’d been there for the courthouse wedding fallout, had held me while I cried over my mother’s week-long silent treatment.
“Of course they’ll be there,” I’d said, defensive. “They’re her grandparents.”
But I’d called anyway, three weeks in advance, just to be absolutely certain.
“Mom? Hi, it’s Sarah.”
“I know who it is,” she’d replied, not unkindly. “What’s up?”
“Lily’s birthday is coming up. October 15th, a Saturday. We’re having a small party at our place, starting at two in the afternoon. Can you and Dad make it?”
There’d been a pause, the sound of papers rustling. “October 15th. Let me check.” More rustling. “Yes, that should be fine. We’ll be there.”
“Great! Lily’s so excited. She keeps asking when Grandma and Grandpa are coming.”
My mother had made a soft sound—pleasure or acknowledgment, I couldn’t quite tell. “We’re excited too. Tell her we’re bringing something special.”
“You don’t have to bring anything,” I’d said automatically, though I’d already been mentally cataloging how many presents we could afford to buy on top of everything else. “Just having you there is enough.”
“Don’t be silly. Of course we’re bringing a gift. She’s our granddaughter.”
