“It’s gift time,” I hear Betty say in her irritating sing-song cheerleader voice from behind me. “You both can canoodle later on.”
There’s a snicker, and then I hear the door snick close.
“Want to canoodle?” I tease.
Her eyes go cold. “No. I want to do presents.”
I don’t know how to make her pliant because right now she’s unyielding in her stance. I’ve never seen her like this. I have no troubleshooting guide to help me.
But I know what I need to do. I need to appreciate her more. Show her that I’m grateful for all that she does.
“Thanks for buying gifts for everyone, Mia.”
She chuckles.
“What?” I ask.
She shrugs as she walks past me to go inside.
“What?” I ask again, helping her get her coat off.
“Doesn’t matter,” she says sweetly.
The living room is warm, and everyone is settled in their usual seats. The seating space is large and faces the enormous Christmas tree.
Mia and I sit where we usually do—on the edge chairs near the fireplace. Not uncomfortable, but noticeably set apart. No armrests. No back support unless you sit up perfectly straight. They’re meant for guests.
I glance around. Mom and Dad are on the sofa, and Diana is next to my mother. Betty and Tristan are on a love seat. Patrick and Gianna are on a matching couch across from my parents.
“Would you like me to move some armchairs, baby?” I ask Mia, not liking what I’ve just realized, that in the social pecking order of the Winter family, my wife and I are relegated to fucking overflow seats.
I’m the eldest. The CEO. The onekeeping the Winter name on top of every quarterly report—and we’re being treated this way?
Mia turns to me with a radiant smile. The fakest one I’ve ever seen. “Why?”
I shake my head. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know why I’m seeing these things that I didn’t before.
Oh, yes, you do, Aiden Winter. It’s that kiss. It opened your eyes, so now you can see how your family treats your wifeandyou. And howyou’vebeen treatingyour wife.
“The gifts under the tree seem lighter this year,” Dad comments. He’s looking at us.
“What?” I ask, baffled. “Are we counting gifts now?”
Mom’s lips thin. “It’s just…well, Mia, maybe you forgot, but there are no gifts from you and Aiden for the family this year. Just the kids. And there’s one from you to him, and him to you.”
Mia didn’t buy presents for the family like she usually does?
I glance at her, and she’s wearing this serene, almost saintly expression. “You know, Edith,” she says sweetly, “I just realized that every Christmas, none of you get me anything, so?—”
“We always have something under the tree for Aiden and you,” Mom snaps, cutting her off.
Fucking hell!Mia’s right. My parents never have a gift meant just for her. They do ‘couple’gifts for us, but everyone else, including me, gets something personal—individually wrapped, individually chosen.
How the hell did I never see it before?
You haven’t been looking, you moron.
Because I don’t care about this shit.
