I had been looking forward to a rare moment of peace—a spa day gifted to me by my in-laws. It was meant to be a well-deserved break on my daughter Lola’s fifth birthday, a day I had carefully planned for weeks. From handmade invitations and tiny crowns for the kids to a strawberry-filled chocolate cake, every detail mattered to me. But exhausted from juggling work, school pickups, and daily chaos, I finally agreed to let my in-laws handle the party. They insisted I deserved rest. I hesitantly said yes, trusting that everything would go smoothly.
The spa was everything I had imagined—calming scents, soothing music, and a peaceful atmosphere. Yet, as I tried to relax, my thoughts kept drifting to Lola. Her joy, her excitement, and her little voice asking, “Do you think my friends will like the pink plates, Mommy?” I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was missing something important. I realized I needed to be with her.
I left the spa early and decided to surprise her with her favorite chocolate cupcakes. But when I pulled into our driveway, I knew something wasn’t right. The house was quiet. No decorations. No laughter. Just silence. My neighbor Rachel, watering her garden, looked surprised to see me.
“Did you forget something for the birthday girl?” she asked.
I told her I thought the party was still happening. She looked puzzled and said it had ended a while ago—but not here. It had been moved to a place called the Plant Café. Confused and anxious, I drove there as quickly as I could.
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