Chapter 2 - The Mocking Begins
The next morning at breakfast, Diane leaned across the table toward Milo, her coffee cup cradled in both hands.
"So, birthday boy," she said, though his birthday was months away. "Should I get you a nice little purse this year? Something to match your dresses?"
Milo's fork froze halfway to his mouth. He glanced at me, then back at her, unsure if it was a joke.
Then, hoping to win her over, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the little blue coat he'd finished the night before.
Diane took it between two fingers, holding it away from her body like it might stain her hand.
"What kind of boy sits around sewing dresses for dolls?" she sneered. "At this rate, he'll grow up wearing them himself. You're not raising a grandson, Nora. You're raising a little girl in a boy's body."
Milo's face went red — that deep, burning red kids get when the whole room is watching them get humiliated. He slipped the coat back into his pocket and stared at his plate.
"Diane, that's enough," I snapped. "He's ten years old."
"Someone has to make a man out of him," she said, lifting her palms like she was the reasonable one in the room. "The world isn't going to coddle him the way his mother does."
Adam set down his fork hard enough that it clicked against the plate.
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"Mom, I mean it. Leave him alone."
She just sipped her coffee, unbothered, as though we were the ones being unreasonable.
