My sister’s son smirked and said loudly,
“I just taught him a lesson. My parents say I’m never wrong anyway.”
Everyone at the table laughed it off.
Dad added,
“Boys will be boys.”
Mom agreed.
“A little roughousing never hurt anyone.”
My sister patted her son’s head proudly.
“That’s my strong boy.”
When I tried to check my son’s injuries, my father pushed me back.
“Stop babying him.”
My sister’s son added,
“Next time it’ll be worse if he doesn’t listen.”
But then my son quietly pulled out his phone and said something that made everyone freeze.
My sister dropped the glass in her hand and it shattered on the floor.
The community center’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I arranged the blue and green balloons around the party room. My son Tyler’s sixth birthday was supposed to be perfect. I had spent weeks planning every detail, from the dinosaur-themed decorations to the custom cake shaped like a T-Rex.
The guest list was small by design, just immediate family. After years of keeping my distance from certain relatives, I thought maybe things had changed enough to give them another chance.
My phone vibrated with a text from my sister Angela.
Running late. Traffic is terrible. See you in 20.
Twenty minutes gave me time to set out the party favors and arrange the snack table. Tyler bounced excitedly near the gift table, his energy infectious. He had been talking about this party for months, especially about seeing his cousin Nathan again. The two boys were close in age, though they rarely spend time together anymore.
The door swung open, and my parents walked in first. Mom carried a wrapped present under one arm, while Dad followed behind, already checking his watch as if he had somewhere more important to be. They greeted Tyler with brief hugs before settling into chairs at the main table.
“Where’s Angela?” Mom asked, glancing around the room.
“She texted that she’s running behind,” I replied, adjusting a streamer that had come loose.
Dad grunted.
“Typical. That girl was never on time for anything.”
Fifteen minutes later, Angela arrived with her husband, Brett, and their son, Nathan. My nephew walked in with a kind of swagger that seemed unusual for a 7-year-old, chest puffed out like he owned the place.
Angela immediately launched into apologies about the traffic, though I noticed they had stopped for coffee based on the cups they carried.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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