In the days leading up,
you counted the gifts,
insistent on balance, a fragile measure in your mind.
Then came the chaos — torn wrappings, bright voices —
and afterward, you smiled, content with the count,
though your sister had more.
The day wore on, its weight pressing as time stretched,
and though my departure loomed, you called it a success,
sweetened by candy, no doubt, and the bedtime that came far too late.
The next morning, you rose far too early,
dawn’s light bringing calm clarity to your seven-year-old mind.
You saw the day before with fresh eyes, the gifts you’d pined for now seeming small,
their fleeting glow dimmed by a deeper, growing understanding.
With new clarity, you declared that the gifts once treasured now paled in comparison to the bond of family —
made more precious by the fragile threads of our broken home.
That day, you spoke with quiet resentment, lamenting the money I had spent,
when what you truly longed for — what was really on your list —
was the father who no longer filled your days.
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