New Year’s Eve had been circled on my calendar for weeks. I slipped into a burgundy dress I’d been saving, styled my hair, and applied my lipstick with a smile. At 60, reconnecting with old friends at my high school reunion felt special.
Just as I was about to leave, my phone buzzed. It was Jake, my son. “We’re dropping off Jenni and Lily for a few hours,” he said breezily.
“Jake, I have plans tonight,” I protested, but the line went dead. Minutes later, he and Amanda arrived, kids in tow. “We’ll be back by midnight,” Jake said, ignoring my protests as they drove off.
Disappointment washed over me as I settled my granddaughters on the couch. Photos from the reunion filled my phone—smiling friends, toasts, a magical evening I was missing.
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