I sent my parents $550 every Friday so they could “live comfortably.” On my daughter’s birthday, they didn’t even show up, and then my father said, “We don’t count your family the same.” I opened my banking app, cut off their lifeline, and typed a message that would hit harder than any birthday song. Every Friday at exactly nine in the morning, $550 left my checking account.

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want a war.”

He was silent.

Then he asked,

“Did Lily really wait for them all afternoon?”

I looked toward the hallway.

“Yeah.”

He sighed.

“I have a daughter too.”

“I know.”

“She wouldn’t forgive me if I did that to her.”

I closed my eyes.

“Then don’t.”

He was quiet for several seconds.

Finally, he said,

“I’ll talk to Mom and Dad.”

“You don’t have to talk to them for me.”

“I know.”

He paused.

“I just need to know who they are without the version they showed me.”

After we hung up, I walked into Lily’s bedroom.

She was still asleep.

Her purple dress was folded over the chair.

The glitter from her birthday crown was scattered across the floor.