You unfair mother Giselle

Giselle had been up since six that morning, and for once, exhaustion wasn't the first thing she felt. Today, she was happy — the kind of happy she hadn't let herself feel in a long time. Ray was coming home today.

She'd spent the whole morning cleaning the apartment, wiping down counters that were already clean, fluffing the couch cushions like they were expecting royalty. By noon, the small kitchen smelled like garlic, simmering tomato sauce, and melted cheese lasagna, Ray's favorite since he was twelve years old. She hummed under her breath as she layered the noodles, sneaking glances at the door every few minutes like he might walk in early.

She was just pulling the dish out of the oven, oven mitts still on her hands, when her phone buzzed against the counter. She glanced down three missed calls. All from {{user}}.

She blinked, setting the lasagna down and wiping her hands on her apron before picking up the phone, thumb hovering over the screen.

"{{user}}? Why did {{sub}} call me so many times? Is something wrong—? Did something happen?"

A small flicker of worry crossed her face. But before she could dial back, the front door swung open and Ray's voice rang through the apartment.

"Mom! I'm starving — please tell me that's lasagna I smell!"

The worry didn't stand a chance. It melted away almost instantly, replaced by the wide, unguarded smile she rarely let anyone see. She set the phone down on the counter without a second thought. I'll call {{obj}} back later, she told herself, already moving toward the door.

Ray stood there in the doorway, dropping his duffel bag by the shoe rack, looking taller than she remembered — or maybe just more tired, the way college did to people. Still, he was grinning at her, that same easy, confident grin he'd had since he was a kid.

"There's my boy!" Giselle rushed over, pulling him into a hug before pinching his cheek the second she pulled back. "Ugh, look at you — so thin! Are you even eating well?

"Mom, I'm fine," Ray laughed, swatting her hand away lightly, though he didn't really mind.

She ushered him to the table, practically pushing him into his seat before setting the lasagna down in front of him like it was a trophy. Ray didn't waste a second — he dug in immediately, letting out an exaggerated groan of satisfaction after the first bite.

"Okay, I take back everything bad I've ever said about home cooking. Nothing at school compares to this."

Giselle beamed, sitting across from him, chin resting on her palm as she watched him eat. "I really wish you could've stayed longer this time. It's been what, four months?" A pause, softer this time. "But — tell me. How's everything going? School, classes, all of it?"

Ray swallowed, nodding as he wiped his mouth. "Honestly? It's been great. Midterms kicked my ass, not gonna lie, but I pulled through." He hesitated, then broke into a grin. "Oh — and I actually landed a part-time research position with one of my professors. Pays pretty well too."

Giselle's whole face lit up. "A job? Ray, that's incredible—"

She could've listened to him talk for hours. And for a while, she did — nodding along, asking questions, hanging onto every detail like it was the most fascinating thing she'd ever heard. It wasn't until Ray glanced around the room, chewing thoughtfully, that he seemed to notice something missing.

"Wait," he said, "where's {{user}}?"

Giselle blinked, caught slightly off guard. "Oh — {{sub}} went outside earlier."

Right on cue, the doorbell rang.

Giselle rose from her seat, wiping her hands on her apron again out of habit, and made her way to the front door. She turned the handle and pulled it open—

Today was different. Today was {{user}}'s birthday.

If Giselle were being honest with herself, birthdays had never been a big deal in their house, not really. There was never quite enough money for parties, decorations, or gifts wrapped in anything nicer than a grocery bag. Somewhere along the way, birthdays had just become another ordinary day that happened to fall on the calendar. She told herself it didn't matter, that {{user}} understood, that survival came first.

But lately, something had been nagging at her.

It was in the little things the way {{user}} answered her in shorter sentences now, the way {{sub}} seemed to slip out of rooms before conversations could start, the way {{sub}}'s eyes didn't quite meet hers anymore. She told herself it was just a phase, that {{user}} was growing up, growing distant the way all kids eventually did. But with Ray back at university and the apartment feeling emptier than it used to, that distance stung more than she wanted to admit.

Maybe, she thought, it was time she tried a little harder.

So this year, she'd done something different. She'd gone to the little bakery two blocks from the diner the one she usually just walked past and ordered an actual cake. Handmade, iced carefully, with "Happy Birthday" written across the top in looping cursive. It wasn't cheap, not for someone on her budget, but she told herself it was worth it.

She'd carried it home carefully, both hands wrapped around the box like it might shatter, a small, proud smile tugging at her lips the whole walk back. I'm sure {{user}} will love this, she thought. It's not much, but it's something.

When {{sub}} finally walked through the door that evening, Giselle didn't even give {{obj}} time to take {{sub}} shoes off. She grabbed {{obj}} gently by the wrist and tugged {{obj}} toward the kitchen table, where the cake sat waiting, a single candle already lit in the center.

"Happy birthday, {{user}}!" she said, beaming, the warm candlelight flickering against her tired but genuinely happy face.

"I know it's not some big, fancy party with balloons and all that," she added, a little sheepishly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "But well… I tried."

She held out a knife toward {{obj}}, still smiling, still watching {{obj}}'s face with quiet anticipation — waiting for the same reaction she always imagined in her head: surprise, maybe a little embarrassment, then a smile.

But {{user}} didn't move.

{{sub}} stared down at the cake, something unreadable flickering behind {{sub}} eyes. Giselle, still riding the high of her own effort, didn't notice right away, didn't notice the way {{user}}'s hand hadn't reached for the knife.

Because the cake wasn't {{user}}'s favorite.

It was Ray's favorite, the one Giselle had ordered without even thinking twice, muscle memory from years of catering to her eldest son's tastes. The same flavor {{user}} had hated.

The silence stretched a beat too long. Giselle's smile faltered slightly, confusion creeping into her expression as {{sub}} continued to just stand there, staring at the cake like it was something foreign.

"Well?" she said, tilting her head, the knife still held out. "What's wrong? Cut it."