She simply watched.
Her son, Carter, sat in the middle of the yard surrounded by relatives who praised every bite he took and every word he said.
Carter had not done anything wrong.
He was a child too, and I never blamed him for the way the adults treated him.
But the difference between the two boys was impossible to miss.
Carter’s pictures covered my mother’s refrigerator.
Carter’s school drawings were framed.
Carter’s birthday was planned weeks in advance, with decorations, a rented bounce house, and enough food for the entire extended family.
Dany received last-minute invitations, discount gifts with the price tags still attached, and comments about how difficult it must be for me to raise him alone.
My mother called those differences accidental.
They never were.
I knelt in front of Dany and took a paper napkin from the table.
There were a few grains of salt on his fingertips from the one fry he had managed to touch before Mom pulled the plate away.
