Amanda slid into her chair and started talking immediately, because excitement in her seemed to come with no volume control and no off switch.
“I think maybe Aunt Lisa got me that big art case with the watercolors,” she said. “And Mom, maybe Grandma got the dollhouse furniture because she asked what color I liked for a bedroom, and maybe—just maybe—Grandpa actually remembered that I wanted a bike.”
She said the last part hopefully, but not confidently.
That difference hit me harder than I wanted to admit.
Kids should expect love like it’s air. They should not have to measure it, ration it, or brace themselves for disappointment before the candles are even lit. But Amanda had already learned something I had spent years trying to shield her from: my father, Richard Carter, loved in ways that were uneven, conditional, and usually cruel.
