We eat in silence for a while. She put fresh blueberries in the pancakes that she probably woke up early to get. They’re my favorite, even though everyone else likes chocolate chip. I like that she remembers that—it feels like one of those little things parents do to make their kid feel loved. Sitting here, like this, I can pretend that I belong here, that this is any other family enjoying a Saturday breakfast together.

My chest aches when I snap myself out of it.

“Parker’s birthday is tomorrow,” I say. I’m surprised she hasn’t mentioned it. She remembered mine a couple of months ago, but I insisted on no presents. I did accept a chocolate cake, though. But you never know, so I’m measuring Deb’s reaction. This is an easy test for whether you have a good foster-whatever or a bad one. Part of me hopes she fails, and Parker will realize I love him more, but I hate myself the minute I think it. I hope she passes—for his sake.

“I know,” Deb says.

Good. Parker will almost certainly get a gift from her. I already bought him a Star Wars movie, but I can’t afford much else.

But then Deb continues. “I actually wanted to talk to you about his party.”

I freeze with a piece of pancake halfway to my mouth. A drop of syrup slides off the bite and onto the table, pooling in my ugly gouge. I always plan Parker’s party: We do the same thing every year. I save up and take him out for a slice of pie if I can. Then I perform coin tricks for him and any other kids in our current foster house.

“I meant to tell you sooner… work’s just been so busy, but I invited some of his class over for a Star Wars party.”

I drop my fork on my plate. It clangs louder than I mean it too. “We usually do something else, just the two of us.”

I turn to Parker and regret it immediately. He winces and shoves another bite of pancake into his mouth, chewing with a slowness he rarely possesses. Swallowing, he meets my stare but says nothing.

“Do you want a big party?” I ask.

I should let this go, but I need for him to say it. Part of me doesn’t quite believe he’d break another one of our traditions. Another, better part of me wants whatever he wants.

“I thought it might be cool,” he mumbles, not looking at anyone. “We could do our thing after.”

“Right. Yeah. No big deal.” I take another bite. I can barely swallow it. “You can’t beat Star Wars.”

I laugh, but it sounds wrong.

Jacob stares at his plate. Deb stares at the side of my face.