Annabeth was only five years old and very self assured in the fact that she hated Mother's Day. Her kindergarten class was making a big deal out of it, planning cards and presents and a brunch with tea and muffins. She wriggled in her seat uncomfortably, staring down at the blank sheet of paper placed neatly on her desk that she was to decorate and build into a card.
It wasn't that she couldn't do it; Annabeth absolutely knew she could, and she knew it'd be better than anyone else's. Images of the perfect card flew through her head, just the right blend of colors and shapes (she would avoid using too many words, because it hurt her head too much). She just didn't want to. She feigned a stomachache and skittered off to the nurse's office for an hour. By the time she returned, her teacher promised that she'd have time to work on her card later, so don't worry, all right?
Except she didn't want a later.
She didn't know where her mother was, exactly, and she didn't want to make a card for her new mother, either.
Which is why she was staring at the paper blankly while the rest of the class was listening to a book on the carpet. She fidgets, attention drawn to the tale her teacher read aloud, and even though she can't see the pictures, she imagines them just fine, and it's ten times better than card creation. When it finishes, Miss Gates comes over and gives her a disappointed look that she still hadn't done a card, however much her face still holds a gentleness.
"Annabeth, you need to finish this if you want to work on drawing that portrait!"
Portraits. Portraits were the next project and suddenly Annabeth wants nothing more than to start crying. Her eyes start to water, but no, she won't, she won't let herself start crying over this, especially when she hears that dumb Johnny boy giggle; he was always listening, waiting to hear what she'd do to get scolded next. But how, how do you draw a picture of a woman you've never seen?
Miss Gates flashes her a look of concern, but she misinterprets. "You don't have to write anything on it, okay? And if you decide you want to, me or Mrs. Brown will help, all right?"
It's the complete opposite of what Annabeth wants to hear right now, because they think it's her dyslexia, again, and maybe that was a part of it, but it's so much more. Bringing it up is another reminder that she's different, that she has a harder time reading than anyone else, even if she can understand and remember and talk about the words perfectly after the fact; she knows she's smart, smarter than everyone else in the class, but it's so hard to show it. She chokes a little, but she holds back her tears. Miss Gates sits down next to her, folds the paper in half, taking what she thinks is the first step.
"You have to have a card for her, Annabeth. You don't want her to be the only mother at tea without one, do you?"
And that's it. That's what opens her up for tears, and they roll down her face silently. She can hear Johnny laughing, muttering something mockingly to Ryan beside him, and then a handful of other kids giggle. Miss Gates turns to them immediately and orders them to stop laughing, an order which they obey, but the damage is done and Annabeth can still hear the sounds of it in her head. Her teacher scoops an arm around her back to tug her close, and in the gesture Annabeth comes to the realization that this woman is the only adult who ever seems to hug her like this.
In the wake of this, and the tea and the cards and the holiday, Annabeth just starts crying harder and she holds tightly onto Miss Gates, because even if her teacher doesn't really understand, even if she'd accidentally made it worse, there's a comfort in being held.
She never makes the card. She never draws the portrait. She says her mother doesn't eat muffins, so it doesn't matter what kind they get for her, and the whole thing is stupid. She turns into That Difficult Child, and Miss Gates is a beacon of patience and kindness, but there's only so much she can do. Annabeth's name is on the board with three strikes, her recess is gone, and the next one gets her sent to the principal's office.
She doesn't go. She hides in the bathroom instead, which only ends up making it worse, because by the time she does find herself in the presence of Principal Ellis, they've called her dad and interrupted his work. He shows up at the end of the day, because of course he can't leave early, and Annabeth waits outside with the secretaries while he talks with both Principal and Miss Gates. She tries to listen, eyes still blotchy from crying and her hands constantly itching to grab at things around the office, but they speak in hushed tones as Mrs. Clark, the nicer secretary, offers her a lollipop in hopes of settling her down.
When her father comes out, he's sighing, but he doesn't look at her in disappointment. He takes her hand and tugs her up, and together they exit the building. The drive home is silent; Annabeth waits for him to ask, waits for him to lecture, because she did it again, and she knows her stepmother isn't going to be happy when they walk in the door. She's already mentally preparing herself for an argument, calculating the quickest way to escape the kitchen and hide in her room. Still, her father says nothing, and somehow that's even worse. There's no acknowledgment good or bad, there's no sympathy except in the way he looks at her, but it's not enough, and she just wants to go back to school, for once in her life, if only so Miss Gates can hug her again.
They argue, of course, barely ten minutes after getting home. Her stepmother says she really needs to stop being so problematic in school, she understands writing is an issue, but it's still important to listen to what the teacher says! Her father does nothing, except give her that sympathetic look again, the one that shows her he knows, he knows exactly why today went like it did, but he disappears off into his research anyway without offering much explanation to his wife or a word of comfort to his daughter. Annabeth enacts her plan to flee the kitchen and practically dives into her bed, burying herself under the blankets, where she cries and cries until she falls asleep.
She pretends to be sick on the Friday before Mother's Day, because she absolutely cannot handle a Mother's Day tea, not without a mother and not even with her stepmother. Her dad is busy enough to believe her, checking in a few times a day to make sure she's all right. Her stepmother makes her soup, and the only reason she eats it is because she needs to keep up the pretense. Her father must know about the tea party, he must, because even if Annabeth tore up the note her teacher sent home to alert her family of the whens and wheres, Frederick Chase was summoned to the school and it had to have to come up in discussions over his difficult daughter. There's no doubt in her mind. But he doesn't mention it. Not once.
They don't celebrate at home. Annabeth would refuse. Neither her father nor stepmother brings it up. It's just another lazy Sunday; nobody talks much, and the awkward in the atmosphere finally disappears as they all settle in for bed. (Next year there will be twins, next year it'll be a disastrous Mother's Day, next year Annabeth fully knows what she is and why her mother is never around.)
The Monday after, Miss Gates greets her with a hug, telling her with honey in her voice that she's so sorry that Annabeth missed the Mother's Day tea, but there's still plenty of time to make all the presents. She can just take them home belatedly.
She never does.
originally posted on ao3 over a year ago!