Chapter 1 - The Shadows of Favoritism
My parents told me they didn’t want children at the Christmas party, including my son. I accepted it quietly, even though it hurt, because I thought they were applying the same rule to everyone. But when I arrived at their house, I saw my sister’s 3 kids already there. I stood there in silence, realizing my son hadn’t been excluded because of a rule—he had been excluded because they chose him. When I asked why her children were allowed, they said these children "Deserve to be here." I didn’t argue. I simply told them I was ending their support.
At seven in the morning, my kitchen always sounded bigger than it used to.
Before, it had been Mark’s laughter bouncing off the cabinet doors, the coffee maker gurgling like it had its own opinion, his work boots thumping as he crossed the linoleum with a mouthful of toast. Now it was just the hiss of the kettle, the tick of the cheap clock I bought after the accident because the old one “felt wrong,” and the soft scratch of Tommy’s pencil as he worked on his spelling words.
“Chrysanthemum,” he whispered, tongue caught between his teeth. “C-h-r-y…”
“You’ve got it,” I said, even though my throat felt like it was full of sand.
He looked up at me with Mark’s eyes, the same warm brown that always seemed to notice things most people walked right past. “Mom, why do we have to spell flowers when winter doesn’t even have flowers?”
I tried to smile. “Because school likes to keep you on your toes.”
“But flowers don’t have toes,” he said, deadly serious.
A laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it, and it surprised me so much I pressed my fingertips to my lips like I’d caught myself doing something illegal. Tommy beamed, pleased with himself, and went back to his words.
Sometimes I could almost believe we were okay. Sometimes I could even believe I was okay.
Then the quiet would lean in again, and I’d remember that I was a widow at thirty-four. That a hardhat and a phone call and a supervisor who sounded like he’d swallowed nails had changed everything. That Mark had kissed my forehead that morning and said he’d be home early because Tommy had a science fair project he wanted to help with.
That Mark never came home.
The first months were a blur of paperwork, casseroles dropped off by neighbors, condolences that felt like sandpaper, and nights where I lay in bed staring at the ceiling until dawn. I learned quickly that grief was not one big wave you survived. It was a tide that kept coming back, soaking your ankles when you thought you were safely on shore.
If I hadn’t had Sarah and Jim, my in-laws, I don’t know how I would’ve kept my head above water.
Sarah picked Tommy up from school every day so I could keep working. Jim started showing up on Saturdays with a tool belt and a gentle smile, fixing small things around the house without ever making it seem like I was helpless. They never treated Mark like he was gone; they talked about him the way you talk about the sun when it’s behind clouds. Still there, still warming you, even when you couldn’t see it.
And every time I stopped by their house, Sarah tried to slip me money like she thought I was going to faint from pride.
“I can’t,” I told her one afternoon when she pressed an envelope into my purse and acted like she was just tucking in a napkin. “Sarah, please.”
She held my gaze, eyes soft. “Kate, honey, we want to help. Your family—let us do this.”
“It’s not about—” I started.
“I know it’s not,” she said, and her voice cracked on the word know. “That’s why it matters.”
The insurance company had paid out two hundred and fifty thousand dollars after Mark’s death. It sat in an investment account, quiet and heavy, like a promise I refused to break. Mark and I had talked about college, about maybe helping Tommy buy a small place one day so he didn’t have to scramble like we had. I wasn’t rich, but between that and my salary as a marketing manager, we weren’t drowning.
What Sarah and Jim gave us wasn’t money. It was steadiness.
If only my own parents knew how to do that.
My mother and father had always made it clear my older sister, Rachel, was the sun in their orbit. Rachel got the better Christmas gifts, the nicer birthday parties, the “Oh honey, you’re so talented” whenever she did the bare minimum. I got “Why can’t you be more like your sister?” so often I could’ve stitched it into a throw pillow.
When Rachel had kids, my parents’ favoritism spilled right onto them, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her three—Emily, Kevin, and Josh—could do no wrong. They could stare at their phones through dinner and get praised for being “so calm.” They could answer questions with grunts and get called “independent.” My son, Tommy, could ask about how a clock worked and get treated like he’d asked to set the house on fire.
Last weekend had been typical. Tommy was excited to see his grandparents. He’d worn his nice sweater with the little reindeer on it and carried a paper bag of cookies he’d helped me bake.
Within twenty minutes, my mom was sighing like she was auditioning for a tragedy.
“Why does the clock make that sound?” Tommy asked, pointing at the antique grandfather clock. “How does it work inside?”
My mother’s eyes slid to me. “Kate, can’t you control him?”
“He’s just curious,” I said.
“He’s always asking questions,” she muttered. “Rachel’s kids never give us this much trouble.”
My dad, barely looking up from his laptop, said, “Here, Tommy. Why don’t you play some games? I downloaded some new ones.”
Tommy didn’t want games. He wanted to talk. He wanted to connect. He wanted to be seen.
Rachel’s kids sat in the corner, each in their own little digital bubble, barely acknowledging anyone. My parents looked at them like they were evidence of perfect parenting.
May you like
I’d learned to bite my tongue long ago. Growing up as the less favored child trained you in silence like it was a sport. But watching it happen to Tommy made something in me ache in a different, sharper way.
And then, one Tuesday dinner at my parents’ house, they made it worse.
