daughter. Some people laughed, as if it were a joke. I saw my little girl struggling to hold back tears. My husband didn’t laugh. Silently, he placed a thick folder on the table. When they began to leaf through it, the laughter died away, the glasses fell still, and the air grew heavy. No one was prepared for what those pages revealed.
The Christmas table was perfectly set in the dining room of the family home in Segovia. The turkey steamed, the candles flickered, and the conversations overlapped in an awkward murmur, heavy with rehearsed smiles. I was sitting next to my nine-year-old daughter, Emily, stroking her back with my thumb. I was nervous. I always was at my mother-in-law’s house.
Margaret, my mother-in-law, stood up with her glass of red wine. Her voice was clear, firm, accustomed to being heard.
“I’m proud of all my grandchildren…” she paused deliberately, “except for one.”
The silence was brief, but long enough. Then, her index finger rose and pointed directly at Emily.
Some people laughed. Short, awkward laughs, as if it were some private joke I didn’t understand. I felt my daughter’s body tense. Her jaw trembled. She lowered her gaze, clutching the napkin between her fingers.
I looked at my husband, Daniel. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t speak. He simply lowered his gaze and took a deep breath.
“She’s just a child,” I said, my voice low but firm.
Margaret smiled without looking at me.
“Children can be disappointing too,” she replied. “Especially when they don’t live up to expectations.”
Emily bit her lip. I saw her fighting back tears. That silent battle broke my heart.
Then Daniel stood up.
Without a word, he went to the living room sideboard and returned with a thick, black-covered folder. He placed it slowly on the table, right in front of his mother. The sharp thud cut through the air
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