Her son, Ryan, had just turned eighteen. She threw him a birthday party that looked like something out of a magazine—balloons arching over the entrance of a downtown event hall, a live band, catered food I couldn’t pronounce. Guests arrived with envelopes and wrapped boxes stacked higher than the gift table could hold. She wore a new dress, glowing with pride, telling anyone who would listen, “My boy deserves the best.”Best clothing retailers

Two weeks later, it was my birthday.

There was no party. No cake. Just a folded bill pressed into my palm while we stood in the kitchen. Fifty dollars.

“Be grateful,” she said briskly, already turning back to the sink. “Some kids don’t get anything.”

“I am,” I replied. And I meant it—at least on the surface. I smiled. I thanked her. I didn’t mention Ryan’s party or the five thousand dollars she’d dropped without blinking. I’d stopped expecting fairness a long time ago. Expecting it only made the disappointment sharper.

My dad noticed, of course. He always did. But he was tired. Always tired. He’d say things like, “She means well,” or “You know how she is,” as if those phrases could smooth over years of imbalance.