Then Laurel appeared.
Her daughter Harper had the same birthday. Laurel always looked like she’d walked out of a wellness ad: flawless linen, immaculate hair even at school drop-offs, and an SUV likely worth more than my home.
I’d seen her handing out sumptuous goody bags: custom tags, colored tissue, the works.
I thought combining our parties could unite our families. Why not two moms cooperating?
I texted her:
“Hi Laurel, I realized Harper and Emma share a birthday. Would you like a joint party? We could divide costs and planning. Excited to hear your opinion.” — Rachel
Silence.
One hour. Two. Nothing by bedtime.
The following morning, after school drop-off, her reply came:
“Hi Rachel, thanks, but we’ve organized something more refined for Harper. Our guest list and theme don’t align. I wish Emma a beautiful day.”
That word “refined” pierced like a sharpened dart, polite but deliberately cutting.
I hadn’t felt such dismissal since Emma’s father admitted he wasn’t coming back.
But I persisted.
On the birthday morning, I rose at dawn to hang balloons when Nana Bea showed up, balancing a shaky folding table on her car roof. In slippers, curlers intact, she embodied grandmotherly resolve.
“Sweetheart,” she said, eyeing the cupcakes, “you need rest more than glitter.”
“I’ll rest tomorrow,” I forced a grin.
“You’re hiding something,” she noted.
