At Christmas, My Niece Opened My Gift, Laughed, And Said, “An Ipad Mini? That’s It?” Then Tossed It Back At Me. I Stood Up, Stayed Calm, Gathered Every Present I’d Brought—16 Wrapped Boxes—And Carried Them Back To My Car. Dad Yelled, “Don’t Be Dramatic.” I Replied, “I’m Not—I’m Just Done.”

My mother liked things to look full, abundant. She liked appearances.

I’d learned that lesson young.

She met me at the door with a bright smile that didn’t soften her eyes.

“Helen,” she said, as if saying my name out loud was proof she still considered me part of the family.

Then, before she could hug me, her gaze dipped to the gifts in my arms.

“You brought so much,” she said, pleased.

Not grateful. Pleased.

Evan walked in behind me, snowflakes melting in his hair, holding a paper snowflake he’d made for Grandma. He’d worked on it all week, cutting and recutting until the edges looked symmetrical. He’d dusted it with glitter that was already shedding onto his coat.

He held it up like an offering.

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