Michael’s mother, Loretta, made her feelings crystal clear from our first meeting.
She had this way of smiling while delivering insults, like coating arsenic in honey.
“Blending families is always messy, dear.”
“You’re very lucky my son is so generous.”
Every comment felt like a paper cut.
Small, sharp, designed to sting.
But the worst of her judgment landed on Lucas’s hobby.
My boy crochets.
It started in fourth grade when a Marine veteran visited his school for a wellness workshop. The guy taught the kids basic stitches, talking about focus and creating something from nothing.
Lucas came home obsessed.
His hands moved as if they’d been doing this for years.
It calmed something restless in him and gave him confidence I’d never seen before.
He was proud of himself.
And I was proud of him.
But Loretta? She was disgusted.
“Boys shouldn’t do girl crafts,” she announced at Sunday dinner, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Lucas’s face went red.
No backbone.”
Michael’s jaw stiffened. “Mom, that’s enough.”
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