The next morning, as dawn’s first light pierced through the curtains, I was already at the kitchen table, pen in hand, a blank sheet of paper before me. My anger had crystallized into a resolve as clear and sharp as the winter air outside. Abby was still asleep, the exhaustion of the night before pulling her into a deep slumber. Mark sat across from me, his face stoic but his eyes betraying the tumult beneath.
“We write a letter,” I said, meeting his gaze. “We let them know exactly how they made Abby feel and what that means for us moving forward.”
Mark nodded. “Good. They need to understand the gravity of what they’ve done.”
I took a deep breath and started writing, each word deliberate and imbued with the weight of my feelings. I chronicled the events of the previous night, the hurt etched on Abby’s face, her voice trembling as she recounted her ordeal. I described the betrayal, the exclusion, and the choice they had made—to prioritize their perfect holiday tableau over the presence and inclusion of their own granddaughter.
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