The Lie After Thanksgiving

Birthday at the Aquarium

It was the second day after she gave birth. She had no strength left and didn't feel like eating, so Silas drove across Portwell just to buy her a steaming bowl of seafood chowder.

Her son and mine were born only one day apart.

Tears fell onto my phone screen. I hurriedly wiped them away and continued to the next video.

The third video was uploaded just the day before. The background was my home—mine and Silas'. Iris was wearing my pajamas, leaning against Silas' shoulder, her face soft with maternal tenderness as she watched the child play.

Silas didn't show his face. One arm was wrapped around her, the other helping the child stack building blocks. I didn't need to see him to know—Silas must have been smiling gently.

And what had I been doing at that time, with my son? I'd been in the countryside, at his parents' house, swamped all day, preparing the Thanksgiving dinner he wanted to serve his parents.

The frost in my chest almost solidified when my phone suddenly rang. I answered, and my son's sweet voice came through the speaker. "Mommy, did you see Daddy? When are you coming to pick me up and go home? Daddy isn't on a business trip this time—does that mean he can spend my birthday with me?"

Only then did I remember—the next day was my son's fifth birthday.

From the day he was born until now—except for his first birthday—every single year, something had always come up on his birthday: business trips, emergencies at work, last-minute meetings, social obligations. Every single time, Silas would come home wearing that regretful, heartbroken expression and apologize to our son. "I'm sorry, Felix. I've been too busy with work. I'll make it up to you next time."

It was always that—next time. Felix waited year after year.

I steadied myself, just about to make up an excuse to brush it off, when cheers suddenly rang out from the surveillance feed. To avoid Thanksgiving, Silas had decided to move Iris' child's birthday party to the next day. The venue was the city's newly opened aquarium.

Watching Iris and that child bouncing with excitement on the screen, I suddenly didn't want to lie to my son anymore. I took a deep breath and told him, "We're not celebrating your birthday for now. I'll take you to the aquarium tomorrow. Your daddy did something wrong—and I'm taking you to expose him."

'Silas, I'll see you tomorrow.'

…

The next day, I held my son's hand as we bought tickets and walked into the aquarium.

My brother had tried to talk me out of it, saying Felix shouldn't be dragged into what was between the adults, and that I should send him to our parents' instead. But I didn't agree. Compared to short-term pain, I was more afraid of Felix never seeing Silas for who he truly was.

With my brother's help, my son and I quickly found them.

Silas and Iris were wearing matching family outfits that day. Three doodle faces—two large, one small—were printed across their chests. The moment my son saw them, his steps froze. "Mommy… Daddy doesn't actually hate childish things, does he?"

Last Christmas, Felix's gift to Silas and me had been a family portrait he'd drawn himself. The lines were clumsy, the colors messy in places, the paint even spilling past the edges—but it was obvious he'd poured his heart into it.

I'd been overjoyed, hugging him and praising him endlessly. Blushing, Felix had scampered over to show it to Silas, who only took a gander and tossed it straight into the trash. "You're really showing me something this childish? It's time you grow up, Felix."

Felix had stood there in a daze. He never drew again after that.

I tightened my grip on my son's hand and was just about to crouch down to comfort him when Silas suddenly quickened his pace.