We’d had a hard year financially, so my husband and I agreed Christmas would be simple and fair: $500 per child. No surprises. No competition. I stuck to that promise completely.
I spent weeks quietly paying attention to my thirteen-year-old son—what he talked about, what excited him, what he lingered on online. I hunted for sales, used reward points, and stretched every dollar. I came close to getting everything he wanted, but one game pushed me over budget. I closed the tab and told myself he’d understand. He always did.
The night I wrapped his gifts, I felt proud—until my husband asked me to wrap his daughter’s too. When I opened the bag, my hands started shaking. A brand-new gaming setup. Multiple boxes. I checked the prices. The total climbed past a thousand… then two.
When I confronted him, he didn’t apologize.
“She’s my daughter,” he said. “She comes first. If you don’t like it, you can leave.”
I’d loved his daughter like my own. I truly believed we were a family. Apparently, he didn’t.
The next day, I called a lawyer. Two days later, his daughter showed up at my mother’s house in tears. She said she didn’t want the gifts. She just wanted a dad—and me. She said I was the only one who made her feel like she belonged.
Holding her nearly broke me. But love shouldn’t require accepting disrespect—or teaching our children that fairness is optional.
Some choices hurt either way. You just choose which pain you can live with.
