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.”

“Hi, Grandma,” he said, voice careful.

My mother kissed his cheek quickly.

“Oh, hi, sweetheart,” she said, and I watched her eyes flick toward the living room where my sister Carrie’s kids were already sprawled on the rug.

Evan stepped past her and took off his shoes neatly. He set the snowflake in a safe spot on the side table, as if the right placement could make it matter more.

“Is Grandpa here?” he asked.

“In the recliner,” my mother said. “Watching the game recap.”

Evan nodded and walked toward my father with the kind of cautious hope that breaks your heart when you recognize it.

My father looked up long enough to say, “Hey, kiddo,” then returned his attention to the TV like Evan was background noise.

Carrie was by the tree, mimosa in hand, glittery sweater, hair perfect. She turned and smiled at me.

“There she is,” she said, the tone bright but edged. “Our little hero.”

It was how she always said it when I did something she benefited from.

Her husband, Dan, nodded from the couch and said something polite about traffic. Carrie’s kids—my niece and nephew—were already hovering around the pile of gifts like little sharks.

My niece was fourteen and carried herself like she was auditioning for an invisible audience. My nephew was younger and mostly just followed her lead.

Evan sat on the rug near the tree, cross-legged and quiet. He was eight, observant, painfully polite, the kind of kid who says “Excuse me” even when no one’s in his way.

On the drive over, he’d talked nonstop about how maybe Grandpa would finally hang his drawing on the fridge this year. He’d said it so casually, like it was a small, reasonable hope.

I’d smiled and told him maybe.

I should’ve told him the truth.

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