The BMW’s red bow gleamed under my son’s Christmas lights like a taunt. I watched from the kitchen window as Marcus handed Linda the keys to her brand-new $60,000 gift, his face beaming with pride. “Merry Christmas, Mom—Linda,” he called out, using that ridiculous nickname that made my teeth clench.
My daughter-in-law, Ashley, squealed and clapped like they’d just cured cancer instead of buying a luxury car for a woman who’d been in our family exactly eight months. Me? Well, let me show you what my loving son got his actual mother.
I held up the pink plastic piggy bank, shaking it so the three lonely dollar bills inside rustled like dead leaves. Three dollars. After thirty-five years of raising him, after every sacrifice I’d made, every penny I’d spent on his college education, his wedding, his down payment—three dollars.
“It’s symbolic, Mom,” Marcus had explained with that patronizing tone he’d perfected since marrying Ashley. “You’re always saving money. So we thought this would be perfect.”
“Perfect.” That’s exactly what I’d called it when I smiled sweetly and thanked him for such a thoughtful gift.
Because that’s what mothers do, isn’t it? We smile and pretend our hearts aren’t breaking while our children hand us scraps and call it love. I watched Ashley link arms with Linda, both of them admiring the leather interior like schoolgirls.
Linda had swooped into our family after my dear husband, Tom, passed two years ago, appearing at every family gathering with her perfectly styled silver hair and designer clothes. Somehow she’d managed to become “Mom Linda,” while I—the woman who actually birthed Marcus—had been demoted to just “Mom,” and apparently only worth three dollars. The December wind rattled my kitchen window as I set the piggy bank on the counter next to the Christmas cards I’d never sent.
Cards that would have cost more than my entire gift. The irony wasn’t lost on me, though I doubt Marcus would appreciate it, even if I explained it to him. I’d spent the morning cooking their Christmas dinner, of course—standing in my kitchen for six hours preparing honey-glazed ham, homemade rolls, green bean casserole from scratch, and that ridiculous trifle Ashley insisted on, even though no one but her actually liked it.
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