The holiday season is often described through the lens of warmth and inclusion, but for my son Skye, it was a yearly exercise in navigating the cold. My mother-in-law, Diane, was a woman who believed that family was a matter of biology, not bond. Her tree was always draped in expensive ornaments, and beneath it sat gifts wrapped in thick, textured gold foil, adorned with hand-tied silk bows. Each year, the names of her “real” grandchildren—Clara, Mason, and Joey—were inscribed in elegant gold ink on crisp white tags.
Skye’s gift, however, was always an afterthought. This year, it sat tucked beneath the shadow of a wingback chair, wrapped in a crinkled brown grocery bag that had been folded over and taped shut. In place of a tag, a black Sharpie had scrawled a dismissive note: To Skye. Enjoy. The “e” was smudged, as if the writer couldn’t be bothered to wait for the ink to dry.
Skye was the light of my life, the only beautiful thing to survive my first marriage. When I married Zach, he stepped into the role of father with a natural, fierce devotion that made the term “stepdad” feel insufficient. But Diane remained a fortress of exclusion. She made it her mission to ensure everyone knew Skye was an outsider. Skye, at eight years old, handled the slights with a stoicism that broke my heart. When he saw the grocery-bag gift, he didn’t cry. He simply smoothed his navy sweater—the one Zach had bought him—and gave me a small, reassuring smile. He was used to the “soft landings,” the gifts that came last and meant the least: a used coloring book with half the pages filled, a single dollar bill in a plain envelope, or a leftover party favor from a cousin’s birthday.
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