The car ride home felt like sinking. No music. No holiday chatter. Just rain on the windshield and the quiet, shaky breaths of two kids trying their hardest not to cry.
In the rearview mirror, Jake pressed his forehead to the window, watching the streetlights stretch into golden smears. Beside him, Emma twisted a loose thread on her dress, fighting tears she didn’t want us to see.
“Mom,” she whispered, voice tiny and uneven. “What did we do wrong? Why doesn’t Santa like us?”
My hands tightened around the steering wheel until my knuckles throbbed. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” I said carefully. “What happened today wasn’t your fault.”
Next to me, David stared straight ahead. He wasn’t yelling, but the anger in his silence said everything.
Christmas morning had started with excitement. Carols. Giggles. Hope.
But the moment we walked into my mother’s house, that hope shattered.
Michelle’s kids sat in the middle of a gift explosion—new bikes, game consoles, tablets, designer clothes stacked like a display window. And where my kids always sat? Nothing. Empty carpet. Not even a stocking.
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