Perfect.
For them.
My name is Celia Johnson. I was sixty-seven, widowed, and living on a carefully managed pension.
I loved my grandchildren deeply. Amanda had three children, while Robert had five. I enjoyed reading to them, attending their school events, and listening to their endless stories.
But loving them did not mean I had agreed to become the family’s unpaid holiday employee.
I quietly returned upstairs and sat on the edge of my bed.
Family photographs covered the walls around me.
I appeared in almost every picture—holding a baby, carrying a birthday cake, arranging decorations, serving food, or standing behind everyone else with a tired smile.
I was always present.
But I was rarely considered.
Inside my closet were eight carefully selected Christmas presents. I had spent more than twelve hundred dollars over three months, buying educational toys, books, winter clothes, and anything I thought would make the children happy.
