You put balloons up. Real ones, silver and round, floating near the ceiling where nobody can reach. When did you learn to make things float without touching them?
There is a table with tiny socks on it. So small. Smaller than my hand. Everybody keeps holding them up and going quiet. There is cake with yellow ducks. You didn't cut yourself the biggest piece, which is strange, because you used to fight me for the corner ones.
I watch you across the room. You have a big soft belly now and you keep resting your hand on it like you are keeping something warm. People bring you presents and you don't tear the paper. You save the ribbon. You said you would never save the ribbon.
There is a game where everyone guesses how big around you are with a piece of string. You laughed so hard you had to sit down. I remember that laugh. I thought maybe you lost it somewhere.
You always said you would be a good mom. In the fort, under the blanket, with the flashlight, you said it. You said you would let them stay up late and you would answer every question, even the weird ones, and you would never, ever pretend a thing wasn't real just to make bedtime easier.
I have been worried about you for a while. You sleep too little and you frown at your phone.
But look at you now. Reading the little card on every gift out loud so nobody feels forgotten. You still remember.
Are you going to build them a fort?