Christmas dinner was supposed to feel warm. That was the lie I told myself while setting the table, smoothing the white tablecloth, lighting the red candles, arranging the plates just so. I wanted this evening to be perfect—for my husband, for his parents, and most of all, for our seven-year-old son, Noah.
Noah wore his favorite red sweater with the little white snowflakes. He had chosen it himself that morning and kept asking if Grandpa would like it.
“He’ll love it,” I said, even though something in my stomach twisted when I said the word love.
My father-in-law, Richard, arrived exactly on time. He always did. Everything in his life ran on precision—his schedule, his rules, his expectations. He greeted everyone with the same stiff nod, kissed my mother-in-law on the cheek, shook my husband’s hand, and gave Noah a brief pat on the shoulder, like one might acknowledge a piece of furniture.
