I had everything planned—his favorite green frosting, a butterfly-shaped cake (he’s obsessed with bugs), and just five little candles. Nothing extravagant. Just the two of us, some handmade decorations, and his joyful smile lighting up the kitchen.
He was bursting with excitement, bouncing on his toes as I lit the candles. I said, “Alright, buddy. Time to make your wish.”
He shut his eyes tightly, like he was squeezing the wish from deep inside. Then, to my surprise, he whispered it—out loud.
“I wish I could live with Daddy again.”
My heart sank.
He kept smiling like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just cracked my heart wide open in front of the fridge and a half-eaten butterfly cake.
I glanced at my sister, who had come over to help. She froze. We both knew—he didn’t mean a quick visit. He meant moving in.
What stung the most? His dad hadn’t even called. No card. No video. Not even a simple “happy birthday.”
And there I was—still holding the lighter, trying to keep my face from crumbling.
I didn’t want to ruin his special day. So I leaned down, kissed his forehead, and said, “That’s a powerful wish, sweetheart,” pretending I wasn’t choking on my own words.
He nodded and blew out the candles, as cheerful as ever.
That evening, after the sugar wore off, the presents were opened, and my sister had left, I tucked him into bed.
He looked up and asked, “Do you think Daddy heard my wish?”
I paused. “I think… sometimes wishes take time. But someone always hears.”
He seemed satisfied with that, cuddling up with his stuffed praying mantis—the one his dad gave him two years ago, the last time he actually showed up in person.
Once he was asleep, I sat on the couch, staring at the ceiling, feeling like I had failed.
I left his father for good reasons. A long list of them—some serious enough to come with warning labels.
But my son only remembers the good: skipping rocks together, getting twirled in the grocery store parking lot. Not the yelling. Not the broken dishes. Not how I used to flinch every time a door slammed.
I tried to shield him from all of it. But maybe, in doing so, I also kept him from something he still yearns for.
The next morning, I dropped him off at preschool, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
On my lunch break, I did something I hadn’t done in over six months—I called Mark, his dad.
He didn’t pick up.
I left a voicemail. Calm. Measured. Like I’d rehearsed it.
“Hey. Yesterday was Liam’s birthday. He… he wished to live with you. I thought you should know.”
That night, Liam…