I helped Lily slip out of her coat. She murmured a soft hello, and my mom responded with a nod, then turned away before the greeting even finished leaving my daughter’s lips. It was so quick and practiced that Lily hardly noticed, but I did. I always did.
We moved into the great room where the main event of the evening was unfolding. My dad stood near the enormous Christmas tree, a drink in one hand and a large black trash bag in the other. He was surrounded by children, at least three dozen of them from various cousins and relatives. The tree lights glowed gold, reflecting off shiny ornaments and the proud grin on his face. That grin said he knew exactly how important he looked right now.
“Alright, kids,” he boomed. “Who’s ready for presents?”
Squeals filled the room.
One by one, he pulled gifts from the bag, each wrapped in bright red or silver paper. He called out names with theatrical delight, tossing jokes over his shoulder to the adults, who drank it in like they always did.
“A brand new doll for sweet Harper. A science kit for little Jack. A big stuffed reindeer for Emma. Look at all my wonderful grandchildren.”