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.

So I had to pull over. I couldn’t see the road anymore because of the tears that had started flowing without my permission. I pulled over to the curb in front of the dark park and parked, covering my eyes with my hands as if I could physically stop the tears. Discover more
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My seven-year-old son had just expressed his feelings of worthlessness, and he did so in the same tone he used to talk about it again – as if it were simply a given that he had accepted, as if he had already found his place in the world.

“Listen,” I said, turning in my chair to look them both in the eye. “What Aunt Payton said is cruel and wrong. You are family. You are their grandchildren. And if they don’t see how special, precious, and wonderful you are, it’s their fault, not yours. Do you understand?”

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