For three years, every Friday morning at nine o’clock, I sent my son seven hundred dollars. I never missed a week. I never asked questions. I never expected anything in return except the unspoken promise that family takes care of family, and love doesn’t need a receipt.
But on my seventy-fifth birthday, I learned that some promises are made of smoke, and love can be measured in wire transfers after all.
My name is Jean Carter, and this is the story of how I discovered my worth—by watching the people I loved forget it.
The restaurant was called Marcello’s, a small Italian place downtown with white tablecloths and candles on every table. I’d made the reservation three weeks in advance, calling twice to confirm they had a table near the window, the kind where you could watch the street life while keeping the conversation intimate.
“Party of five,” I’d told the hostess. “It’s my birthday.”
I arrived fifteen minutes early because that’s what you do when something matters. I wore my blue dress, the one my husband Robert used to say made my eyes look brighter. I’d even put on the pearl earrings he gave me for our thirtieth anniversary, the ones I only wore for special occasions.
The hostess led me to a perfect corner table. “Can I get you started with something to drink?” the waiter asked, a young man with kind eyes and a warm smile.
“Just water for now, please. I’m waiting for my family.”
“Of course. And happy birthday.”
Those were the only birthday wishes I received that night.
I sat at that table for an hour and a half. I watched families laugh and share meals. I watched couples toast to anniversaries and first dates. I watched a grandmother blow out candles while her grandchildren sang off-key and enthusiastic.
And I waited.
At six-thirty, I texted Michael: “I’m here. See you soon.”
No response.
At seven, I called. He answered on the fourth ring, and I could hear music in the background, laughter, the clinking of glasses.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Michael, I’m still at the restaurant.”
A pause. Then, almost carelessly: “Oh. Yeah. Sorry about that. We’re at Clare’s coworker’s party. We thought we told you we couldn’t make it.”
My throat felt tight. “You didn’t.”
“Oh. Well, it’s not a big deal anyway.”
I heard Clare’s voice in the background, and then Michael’s voice again, clearer this time, as if he’d stepped away from the noise: “Mom, you still there?”
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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