My MIL Always Gave My Son the Worst Gifts Because He ‘Wasn’t Blood’ — Until He Taught Her a Lesson

Earlier that week, just after dinner. The dishes were still in the sink, and the house smelled faintly of garlic and the cinnamon candle Skye insisted on lighting after we cooked.

He sat cross-legged on the rug, his art pad open in front of him, the frame beside it still in its cardboard sleeve.

“Of course,” I said, drying my hands on a dish towel.

He held up the art pad to show me his watercolor painting — it was soft and a little smudged at the edges.

Our family stood beneath a tree; Zach’s arm was around me, and all the cousins stood smiling around us.

Skye stood at the center, smiling widely.

And… there was Diane. A little off to the side with her hands folded.

She was still part of the picture, but… like a ghost. Everyone had a small heart floating above their heads.

Except her.

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