When my son and I arrived that evening at my parents’ house outside Columbus, Ohio, snow rested along the driveway like powdered sugar. I stayed in the car for a moment with both hands gripping the steering wheel while my son Dylan leaned forward in the passenger seat and watched his breath fog the window.
“Are we late,” he asked quietly.
“No,” I answered even though we were early. My mother disliked lateness, but she disliked my punctuality almost as much because it prevented her from accusing me of indifference. Winning had never been possible in that house.
Dylan wore the sweater my mother had purchased for him the previous year. It was navy blue with a stitched reindeer across the front. She had presented it to me with great ceremony and later complained to my sister that the gift was wasted on someone who did not appreciate expensive things. My mother treated gifts as contracts rather than kindness.
Dylan knew nothing about those rules. He simply believed the sweater felt warm and that wearing it made his grandmother smile.