I stared at my phone, reading the text message from my father for the third time. The audacity was breathtaking. My hands trembled as I sat at my kitchen table in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, trying to process what he was asking: $2,200 for my brother’s graduation party. Not a request—a demand.
My name is Mariana, and I’m twenty‑nine years old. I work as a dental hygienist at a busy practice downtown, and I’m a single mother to the most wonderful five‑year‑old boy named Lucas. His father left before he was born—and honestly, that was probably for the best. What wasn’t for the best was my own family’s treatment of us over the years.
I looked across the room at Lucas, who was building a tower with his blocks on the living‑room floor. His dark curls bounced as he concentrated, tongue poking out slightly the way kids do when they’re focused. He had no idea what had happened just three days ago. Or maybe he did, and he was just better at hiding his hurt than I gave him credit for.
Three days ago was Lucas’s fifth birthday party. I had sent invitations to my parents, my brother Tyler, and my younger sister Bethany six weeks in advance. I called to confirm. I texted reminders. I even offered to pick them up if transportation was an issue—though they all lived within twenty minutes of my house.
