I walked to the door, opened it wide, and called my grandson inside.
He stepped in carefully, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to.
I took off my coat and wrapped it around him. His little hands were ice cold. I picked him up, and he melted into me, still shaking.
“Go sit by the fireplace,” I told him gently.
Jessica’s voice turned sharp. “You’re overreacting.”
I turned to her.
“No,” I said calmly. “You are.”
Michael finally spoke up. “Dad, don’t make a scene.”
“A scene?” I looked around the perfectly decorated room. “You made the scene the moment you chose a burnt roast over your own son.”
He flinched.
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