Last Saturday was supposed to be joyful. Our nephew Jason was turning seven, and my daughter Ellie, six, had been counting down the days. She wrapped her Pokémon gift with Pikachu stickers and wore her sparkly rainbow dress, declaring the birthday photos would be “magical.” We dropped her off with hugs, promising to pick her up in a few hours. But less than an hour later, my phone rang.
It was Ellie—her small voice trembling: “Mommy… can you please come get me? Grandma Carol kicked me out. I’m in the backyard.” We raced back, hearts pounding. There she was—rumpled dress, muddy shoes, clutching her gift, tears streaking her face. Daniel scooped her up as she sobbed, “I just wanted to sing happy birthday…” Fury boiling, I stormed inside.
