I quietly walked the kids to the car, buckled them into their car seats, and got behind the wheel without starting the engine. My hands were shaking. My whole body was trembling.
In the rearview mirror, I saw both children staring out their windows, their faces carefully blank, the way babies learn not to cry. And then I knew exactly what I had to do.
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I turned the key in the ignition but didn’t put the car in gear. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles turned white. In the rearview mirror, I saw both children staring out their windows, their faces carefully blank, the way children learn to do when they try not to let adults see them cry.
The silence in the car felt heavy, oppressive, as if a physical weight were pressing down on all three of us. I should have said something comforting, something that would make everything right. But my throat was tight, and I couldn’t find the words that weren’t lies.
Finally, I put the car in reverse and pulled out of the driveway. The house was visible in the rearview mirror, warm light streaming through the windows. It looked exactly like a home where families gather and children are loved. From the outside, the illusion was perfect.
We were three blocks away when Mia spoke.
“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.
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?”
Mia nodded, but her eyes were full of doubt. Evan simply stared at his hands.
“How long has this been going on?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer. “How long have they treated you differently when I’m gone?”
The children exchanged glances, that communication between siblings that happens without words.
“Always,” Mia finally said. “I guess so. But we thought maybe we were being too sensitive. That maybe we were imagining it.”
“Always.” The word echoed in my head as I turned and looked out the windshield at the dark park. “Always” meant that this wasn’t new. Always meant that it happened every time I took them to the nanny, at every Sunday dinner, at every holiday gathering, and that I was too blind to notice.
Or maybe I was just afraid to see it, because seeing it would mean choosing between my children and the family I so desperately wanted to be a part of.
Memories flooded back to six years ago, which I saw from a new perspective.
Mia’s sixth birthday, where Addison and Roger brought Harper and Liam elaborate gifts—remote-control cars and American Girl dolls—and Mia received a $20 gift card to Target. I reminded myself that they were on a budget, that handmade gifts were more meaningful anyway, and that Mia didn’t need material things to know
