When I first got the text from my sister, I thought it was a mistake. It was a simple group message sent to the family chat: “Can’t wait to see everyone at Mom’s big summer barbecue next weekend! It’s going to be the biggest one yet!”
Pictures of fireworks, burgers, and little sun emojis followed.
My cousins started chiming in right away — “We’ll bring the kids!” “So excited!” “It’s been too long!”
But something about it didn’t sit right with me. I scrolled up through the chat. My name wasn’t tagged, but that wasn’t unusual — my sister, Monica, knew I checked messages regularly.
Still, as I scrolled, I noticed something that made my stomach tighten: there was a new group name at the top — “Family BBQ Planning.” And I wasn’t the one who created it. That wouldn’t have bothered me if not for the fact that I hadn’t received any invitation myself. No message.
No call. Nothing from my mom either, who was apparently co-hosting this “huge” family event. Maybe it was a simple oversight.
I told myself that as I reread the message. But as the week went on and no one said a word to me, I started to feel something sour building in my chest. By Thursday, curiosity got the best of me.
I texted Monica directly:
Hey, just wanted to check — are we supposed to bring something to the barbecue? A few minutes passed. Then my phone buzzed.
Oh. About that…
Those three words sank like a stone in my stomach. What do you mean?
I replied. Mom thought it might be better to keep it small this year, she said. Just cousins and their kids.
That didn’t make sense. We’re cousins and kids, I thought. So… you mean me and Jake aren’t invited?
There was a pause that felt like a lifetime before she answered. It’s not like that. It’s just… Mom wanted things a bit easier to manage this time.
You know how she gets overwhelmed with big groups. That might have been believable — if I hadn’t just seen twenty people gushing in the chat about bringing their children. Right, I typed, my fingers shaking a little.
Tell Mom I hope she enjoys her “small” gathering. I didn’t get a reply. That night, I sat in the living room while my eight-year-old son, Jake, built a tower out of Legos on the rug.
He looked so content, so oblivious to the quiet ache in my chest. He adored my family, especially my mom. He called her “Nana Banana,” a nickname he’d come up with when he was two.
They used to bake cookies together and have little tea parties whenever we visited. Lately, though, she hadn’t been around as much. She’d canceled the last few weekend visits with vague excuses: “not feeling well,” “busy with the church group,” “too tired.”
Now I wondered if those had been excuses for something else entirely.
“Mom?” Jake said suddenly, looking up at me with those big brown eyes. “When are we going to Nana’s again?”
My throat tightened. “Soon, honey,” I said, forcing a smile.
“She’s just busy this week.”
He nodded and went back to his Legos, humming softly to himself. But inside, something cracked. The day of the barbecue arrived with clear skies and summer warmth.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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