That New Year, my parents threw a party, like a real one. Food, people, laughter. Actual joy in the air, which had been in short supply lately.
I saw faces I hadn't seen in forever, including the four kids I used to babysit.
Let me tell you, I was the coolest babysitter on the planet. We made pillow forts. We had theme days. I choreographed dances, made spaghetti, and probably kept their emotional lives more stable than mine.
Shoutout to me.
But you know what I don't shout out?
My mom jipping me on my money.
Yes, Mom. If you ever read this, just know: I remember.
I was fourteen. Babysitting five kids, five, including two toddlers. Every day. Five days a week. From like 10 a.m. to 10 or 11 p.m. That's a 12-hour shift for a child. And on the first two days? I cleaned the entire house while keeping her children alive. Like some sort of teenage Cinderella with Fruit Roll-Ups in her fanny pack.
The mom was so grateful, she paid me $150 a night.
I was thrilled. That was rich-girl money. I called my mom, beaming with pride.
"I made $300 in two days!"
I bragged. I boasted. I planned my empire.
Then I went back.
The next time, the mom handed me a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. For the entire day.
I thought maybe it was a mistake. Maybe she forgot a zero. I was too polite (read: raised by guilt and fear) to ask.
This kept happening. $20 a day. For twelve-hour shifts with five kids.
Years later, I found out the truth.
My mom told her to pay me that.
Let me say that again for the people in the back: My mom told her to pay me $20. A day.
I'm not saying I'm still bitter.
…I'm just saying I'll be billing her for emotional damages in the afterlife.
Now that I'm a mom? I would never let my daughter work like that, unpaid and unprotected. But back then, I didn't even question it. I just accepted that my time, my labor, was worth whatever someone else decided it was. And apparently, to my own mom? That was twenty bucks and a guilt trip.
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Anyway—back to the party. Because nothing says fresh starts like simmering generational resentment in the background of champagne toasts.
Everyone was in a good mood. Music, food, hugs, laughter. It was nice. Like… we might actually make it kind of nice.
But there was one tiny, awkward issue.
My belly.
Or rather, the lack of one.
I was almost nine months pregnant, but I looked closer to five. People kept touching my tiny bump like it was a novelty item. "You're so small!" they'd say, like it was a compliment. But it wasn't. It was weight loss. Stress. Too many nights crying and too many days pretending I was fine. The kind of small that came from surviving, not glowing.
I was barely keeping food down. Not from morning sickness, just from dread. I'd lost more weight than I'd gained, and my body showed it. But nobody asked why I was so small. They just smiled, touched my belly, and told me how "lucky" I was. Like shrinking was something to celebrate. Like survival looked good on me.
Still, I smiled.
Let them think I was lucky.
At midnight, my husband and I kissed.
My first New Year's kiss.
It felt like it should've meant something more. Like it should've been magic. Like a movie moment, right?
But it wasn't. It was… fine.
I kissed him like I was supposed to. Like every movie said I should. But instead of butterflies, all I felt was the clock changing.
Nice.
Quick.
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February rolled around, and with it, my 22nd birthday.
T. Swift sang about this one. "I'm feelin' 22…"
Yeah, okay, eew eew. But I did feel 22. Tired. Pregnant. Slightly bitter. But 22 nonetheless.
John decided to combine my birthday and Valentine's gifts. Classic move. Double the meaning, half the effort.
He bought me a star. Like an actual star. Named Lola, after my gamer tag at the time. (Not the one I use now. The new one's better. We don't talk about Old Gamer Me. She had hope.)
We used to play World of Warcraft together when we were dating. Late-night raids, sniping loot, yelling at guildmates with bad DPS. It was glorious. I wasn't just a healer. I was a problem.
Then it was Call of Duty. I got good. Real good.
There is no high quite like climbing the charts in a PvP lobby and then unmuting your mic.
Them:
"Wait— holy shit. It's a girl."
"A girl?!"
"Bro a girl is top of the leaderboard!"
Me:
Smug. Rude. Unbothered.
"I love being on top."
Instant chaos.
Online, I was ruthless. I had stats, skills, and a scoreboard to prove it. At home, I was tired and bloated and constantly trying to prove I wasn't failing. But online? I was a legend. The guys hated losing to a girl. Which made winning even better.
For my birthday, John got me a new headset and controller.
We had dinner, laughed a little, stayed up late playing COD. Just us, like it used to be. The two of us against the world… or at least against 12-year-olds with anger issues and zero respect for women in gaming.
It was simple.
And for a night, it was fun.
Valentine's Day, we stayed home and had Papa John's.
Or as my son proudly called it: "Papa's Pizza."
He genuinely thought my dad made it.
Every big truck? Papa's truck.
Every construction site? Papa, point and smile.
Every man in a hard hat? Also Papa.
The man had a whole franchise and a workforce in my toddler's eyes, and honestly? He was thriving.