Skye smoothed his sleeves the way he always did when he wanted to look neat.
His hair was still damp from the rushed shower, and his sweater — the navy one that Zach had gifted him for his birthday — clung a little tighter than it used to.
“Want me to say something this time?” Zach asked, leaning in.
“Not here.”
“She might not even notice how we feel, Lydia.”
“She notices,” I said. “She always knows what she’s doing. Skye does too.”
It had been like this for years.
At every holiday, every birthday, Diane gave my son something — technically. Sometimes it was a toy missing a piece; other times, it was a dollar in an envelope. Once, Skye got a leftover party favor wrapped in last year’s paper. And while the others opened boxes full of shiny gadgets and games, Skye’s gifts always came last and landed the softest.
When he turned five, Diane gave him a child’s coloring book — already scribbled in.
And when he looked up, puzzled but polite, she just laughed.
“Well,” she said, sipping wine as I asked her about it, “he should be happy he got something, Lydia. He’s not really my family anyway, right?”
Skye smiled and said thank you. I swallowed the nasty words I wanted to call her.
