“I don’t want our son starting life with a war between his mom and his only grandmother. Let’s skip the rest, open the presents, and go home.”
“No,”
He studied my face. “Fine. But I’m watching her.”
Something had shifted in me, though. I wasn’t making excuses for Diane anymore. I was enduring her. On purpose. For my son.
At the gifts, my friend Tasha slid a box into my lap.
For one second it felt like my shower.
Then Diane dragged her chair against mine, scraping the floor.
I was enduring her.
I reached for the ribbon.
Diane plucked the box right out of my hands.
“Let Grandma help.”
She tore the paper herself. She held up a tiny sleeper like she’d knitted it.
“Won’t this be perfect for when he stays with Grandma?”
She tore the paper herself.
Every gift went the same way.
She opened it, she showed it, she narrated it.
