My 12 y.o. had a mother-and-son dinner at school. I took time off work, ironed my best shirt, practiced jokes in the mirror. I’d missed every game, every birthday—tonight I’d finally show up.
I arrived early, clutching a single rose. The gym buzzed with moms in dresses, sons in ties. I spotted my boy at a table… next to his stepmom. She wore the smile I used to own. He leaned into her, whispering. My name wasn’t on the place card.
I stood there, rose wilting. He saw me—eyes flicked, then away. The whole night he never looked again. I sat alone, three tables back, choking on cafeteria lasagna while they laughed over inside jokes.
Later, my ex called. “He’s crying in his room,” she said, voice soft with pity. “He didn’t know how to tell you. He picked her because… you’re never here. The school only lets one mom. He thought you’d understand.”
The rose snapped in my fist. “Tell him I understand,” I lied, hanging up.
I drove home blasting the radio so I wouldn’t hear my own sobs. Tomorrow I’ll clear my calendar. Every game, every dinner—I’ll be the dad who shows up first, stays last. Even if it’s too late for tonight.
