“Want me to say something this time?” Zach asked, leaning in.
“Not here.”
“She might not even notice how we feel, Lydia.”
“She notices,” I said. “She always knows what she’s doing. Skye does too.”
It had been like this for years.
At every holiday, every birthday, Diane gave my son something — technically. Sometimes it was a toy missing a piece; other times, it was a dollar in an envelope. Once, Skye got a leftover party favor wrapped in last year’s paper. And while the others opened boxes full of shiny gadgets and games, Skye’s gifts always came last and landed the softest.
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