The air in our Connecticut garden was thick with the smell of coal briquettes and the scent of expensive hydrangeas. It was my son Leo’s eighth birthday, one of those suburban milestones that usually involves a bouncy castle, too much sugar, and the polite, if somewhat forced, presence of the entire family.
I stood by the sideboard, smoothing my linen dress, watching my mother-in-law, Evelyn, hold court. At sixty-eight, Evelyn lived her life like a high-stakes game of chess. She was all pearls, sharp smiles, and poisoned compliments. For fifteen years, I had been the « outsider » who had « trapped » her favorite son, David, into a life of bourgeois « labor »—it didn’t matter that David was a successful architect and I was a senior forensic accountant at a prestigious firm.
« Gather around, children! » chirped Evelyn’s voice, rising above the chatter of the other parents.
She was sitting on the cedar bench, a large designer shopping bag at her feet. My heart sank. I knew this scenario. Evelyn loved being « Grandma of the Year, » but her affection was always conditional and very selective.
She called the children up one by one. My niece, Maya, received a limited-edition Lego set. My nephew, Jax, received a brand-new iPad. Even the neighbor’s son, who was only there because his parents were our friends, received a $50 gift card to the local toy store.
Leo stood at the edge of the circle, his eyes shining with the pure, innocent anticipation that only an eight-year-old is capable of. It was his birthday. It was his grandson. He was waiting his turn.
Evelyn rummaged through the bag one last time, pulled out a small box of fine chocolates, and handed it to my sister-in-law. Then she stood up, brushed off some invisible dust from her skirt, and smiled.
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