Then my older son, Noah, handed over his gift—a simple drawing of him and Sharon sledding. She squealed again, smoothing his hair and telling him he was such a talented little artist. They gave him a box bigger than he was, and when he ripped it open, it was a remote-control car with flashing lights and wheels that could apparently drive on walls or ceilings or outer space.

Then it was Mia’s turn.

They’d given her a little plastic doll with hair so sparse it looked like it had survived a bleach accident. Sharon smiled at her in that thin, strained way she only used when she wished she were smiling at literally anyone else. But Mia didn’t notice. She was too excited, too proud. My sweet girl had spent days working on her picture. She held it with both hands, beaming, eyes bright, bouncing in place like a puppy ready to be praised.