The Christmas tree blinked behind them, bright and useless.
Diane lifted her chin.
"Kids today are too full of themselves," she said.
That was it.
"We're leaving," I said.
My voice came out flat.
So flat that even Diane blinked.
Hannah grabbed Ella's hand.
Ella clung to her sister like Hannah was the only solid thing in that house.
I picked up our coats while the adults sat there in their festive sweaters, suddenly fascinated by the rug, the fireplace, the cups in their hands.
No one apologized.
No one comforted Ella.
No one even reached toward the trash.
At the doorway, Ella pulled away from me for one second.
She ran back, reached into the trash can with shaking fingers, and scooped up as many torn pieces as she could.
Diane made a disgusted sound.
"Honestly, Megan," she said, "if you teach them to be this dramatic, don't complain when the world humbles them."
I turned and looked at her.
For one second, I wanted to say everything.
Every Christmas where she ignored Ella.
Every birthday where Bella got the center of the room and my girls got the corners.
Every little cut she had handed my children while calling it honesty.
But Ella was crying into Hannah's sleeve.
So I opened the door and took my daughters into the cold.
The winter air slapped my face clean.
Behind us, Diane's house glowed warm and perfect, like a snow globe built around something rotten.
Eric followed us to the car.
He still had not spoken.
On the drive home, Ella sat in the back seat with Hannah's arm around her.
The torn certificate pieces were folded in her palm.
She kept opening her hand to check that they were still there.
Like proof.
Like maybe if she held them tightly enough, the moment would make sense.
At home, she walked to the couch without a word.
Hannah sat beside her and pulled a blanket over both of them.
I went into the kitchen and poured milk into a pot for cocoa because mothers say practical things when screaming would scare the children.
Then Eric appeared in the doorway.
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