My ten-year-old son, Jack, adores my wife, Sylvie. He calls her “Grandma” with a grin that could melt the iciest heart, and she returns his affection with the warmth of someone who truly sees him. But one evening, I found Jack curled in a ball on his bedroom floor, tears streaking his cheeks.
Through broken sobs, he whispered, “Grandpa says I’m not really family. When you have a real baby, I’ll have to go live with my real mom.”
My blood ran cold.
I confronted my father-in-law, Robert. He just laughed it off.
The next morning, as I loaded Jack into the car for school, Robert called out from the driveway, “Not that car—take the old one. That one’s for the real family.”
I stepped close, keeping my voice even. “Robert, you are crossing a line you can never uncross.”
His smug smile faltered, but he waved me off like a child throwing a tantrum. I didn’t fight in front of Jack. I just got in the old car and drove, my son’s eyes scanning mine, silently begging for reassurance that nothing had changed.
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