On a typical Tuesday evening, I walked into my in-laws’ house to find my children with completely empty plates, while their nieces and nephews were eating their third helping of lasagna from a “real” dinner set. Eighteen minutes later, I quietly decided I’d had enough of being their personal ATM, and that something in this family was about to go wrong in a way no one expected.

“Mom.” Her voice was so quiet I could barely hear her over the roar of the engine. “Why don’t Grandma and Grandpa like us as much as Harper and Liam?”

The question hit me like a stone thrown into still water, sending waves of pain through everything I thought I understood about our lives. I opened my mouth to give her the answer mothers are supposed to give: the reassuring lie that of course they love you just as much, that you’re imagining it, that family is complicated, but love is simple.

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t lie to her anymore.

“They should love you equally, honey,” I said instead, my voice trembling. “Grandparents should love all their grandchildren equally, but they don’t.”

“That,” Evan said calmly and matter-of-factly, as only a seven-year-old can. “We’re not related,” Aunt Payton said.

Continue reading…