He had his arms locked over his chest, his chin tucked down, and the kind of silence a child learns when crying has already been used against him.
The fire pit snapped, and a piece of green dinosaur paper folded inward.
I knew that paper before my brain wanted to accept what my eyes were seeing.
I had bought it because Max was eight and still loved dinosaurs with the seriousness of a scientist.
He did not just say tyrannosaurus.
He said the full names, corrected adults gently, and looked offended when anyone called every long-necked one a brontosaurus.
That was why I had wrapped the gifts myself after midnight.
I was terrible at it.
One corner had too much tape, one box bulged where the toy packaging fought the paper, and I remember thinking Max would not care because he would be too excited to notice.
Now the paper was burning in front of him.
The smoke smelled like ink, cardboard, and something sweet from the cake table nearby.
Margaret stood close to the fire with her wineglass in one hand, completely comfortable in the cold.
That was Margaret’s gift.
She could turn cruelty into ceremony and make everyone else behave as if it were etiquette.
“These are from his real family,” she said, loud enough for the guests to hear. “Not from someone who couldn’t even bother to show up.”
