One year, I drove almost two hours to bring Michael the chocolate cake I had baked for every birthday since he was six.
When I pulled into his driveway, balloons were tied to the mailbox.
Cars lined the curb.
Music drifted from inside the house.
He opened the door, saw me holding the cake, and his entire face changed.
“Mom,” he said, lowering his voice. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“It’s your birthday, sweetheart.”
He glanced behind him.
There were people laughing in his kitchen.
I could smell barbecue sauce and beer through the open door.
“It’s just a thing with Anna’s family,” he said. “This really isn’t a good time.”
He left me standing on his porch with the cake in my hands.
I cried so hard on the drive home that I had to pull into a gas station and sit there until the road stopped blurring.
