My voice came out smaller than I expected.
“It’s unfair that I have it and Lucas doesn’t,” she said, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I don’t want to be spoiled. I don’t want to be bad.”
My chest tightened.
Kids do not come up with that kind of guilt on their own. Kids do not spontaneously decide they are morally obligated to hand over their favorite thing to keep the universe balanced. That guilt had fingerprints all over it.
I sat back on my heels.
“Who told you that?”
Grace shook her head immediately, like the answer was dangerous.
“Grace,” I said softly. “I’m not mad at you. I just need to understand.”
She sniffed, eyes darting to the laptop like it might run away.
“Who told you you had to do this?” I asked again.
For a few seconds she just cried quietly, like her body had finally given up on holding it in.
Then she whispered, “Grandma Patricia.”
My blood turned cold.
“And Grandpa George was there,” she added quickly, like she didn’t want to leave him out, like fairness was still important even now.
I swallowed.
“What did Grandma Patricia say?”
Grace’s voice got smaller.
“She said it wasn’t okay that I have something so fancy and Lucas doesn’t. She said a good granddaughter would share.”
“And?”
She hesitated, eyes squeezing shut.
“And what?” I asked, my voice so gentle it didn’t feel like mine.
Grace opened her eyes and looked at me with raw fear.
“She said if I don’t do it,” Grace whispered, “I can’t call her Grandma anymore.”
I felt something hot and wild rise up in me. The kind of anger that makes your hands shake. The kind of anger that comes from someone making your child cry so they can win something.
Behind me, I heard a creak in the hallway.
Michael’s sleepy voice came from the doorway.
“Jess?”
I turned. He was standing there, hair sticking up, blinking like he’d woken up in the middle of a bad dream.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Grace looked at him, then down, clutching the edge of the wrapping paper like it was a lifeline.
I stood there, heart pounding.
“Michael,” I said, my voice tight, “your mother told our child she can’t call her Grandma anymore if she doesn’t give Lucas her laptop.”
Michael stared at me like I’d spoken another language.
“What?”
Grace nodded miserably.
He crossed the room and dropped to his knees in front of her.
“Grace,” he said, voice low, “did Grandma really say that?”
Grace nodded again.
Michael’s jaw tightened. He looked up at me, and in his eyes I saw something I almost never saw when it came to his parents. Not patience. Not diplomacy. Not that familiar urge to smooth everything over until no one was mad.
Something harder.
He stood up.
Then, without a word, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
I blinked at him. It was after midnight. The house was dark. Our daughter was crying on the floor in a nest of wrapping paper. And my husband, my conflict-avoidant, peacekeeping husband, was unlocking his phone like he was about to do something irresponsible in the best possible way.