Rachel said she had told the other mothers I was an artist. For one hopeful second, I thought she might finally be proud of me. Then she explained that face painting would begin at one-thirty and suggested I make balloon animals afterward.
She had not hired entertainment or purchased supplies. She expected me to drive to Morrison’s Market, pay for everything myself, and work the party without compensation. When I repeated that plainly, she raised her voice so the nearby mothers could hear and said she merely wanted me to contribute something meaningful for once. A few women gave uncomfortable laughs.
I wanted to leave, but through the window I saw Ashton racing across the yard with his friends. None of this was his fault. I agreed to help. Rachel smiled as though she had won, then warned me to make the work look professional because her guests were accustomed to expensive parties.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Everyone will remember today.”
Twenty minutes later, I returned from Morrison’s with brushes, sponges, washable paint, and glitter that strained my grocery budget. Alan was helping organize a backyard game, and I was too humiliated to tell him what had happened. Beneath that shame, however, anger was hardening into a reckless little plan.
I arranged my supplies on the patio. Children immediately crowded around requesting tigers, princess crowns, superheroes, fairies, and dinosaurs. I took a breath, steadied my hands, and began.
