The day before my 63rd birthday, I found out that my son had planned a trip and was leaving me behind to look after 18 children. I didn’t say anything at all. On my birthday itself, he called: “Mom, where are you?” I smiled: “Don’t worry … Venice is beautiful!”

The one where I’d imagined maybe, just maybe, someone would plan something special for me instead of me planning everything for everyone else. “David, eighteen children is—”

“Mom, you’re amazing with kids. They all adore you.”

He was already pulling out his phone, scrolling through messages.

The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇

“Jessica’s already bought all the groceries and made schedules. It’ll be like summer camp, but at your house.”

I stood there holding Tyler’s Spider-Man pajamas, feeling something crack inside my chest. Not break entirely.

Not yet. But definitely crack. “What about my birthday dinner?

I thought maybe we could—”

“We’ll celebrate when we get back. Make it even more special.”

He looked up from his phone then, wearing that charming smile that had gotten him out of trouble since he was five years old. “You’re the best mom in the world.

I don’t know what we’d do without you.”