This Thanksgiving was supposed to be special. My husband, Mark, and I worked hard to give our 8-year-old son, Ethan, a warm, joyful holiday—even though money’s been tight. We cooked a beautiful meal, including his favorite mac and cheese and pumpkin pie. But when dinner started, Ethan barely touched his food.

After dinner, I found him curled up, crying. What he said broke me.

“Grandma told me you and Dad are losers… and we’re not a real family because we’re poor.”

He’d been carrying that all week. My mother, who we’d invited out of kindness, had shattered his trust with cruel words. She told him Mark was lazy, and I wasn’t good at taking care of him—all behind our backs.

The next morning, we confronted her. She didn’t deny it. In fact, she doubled down, saying Ethan needed to know how the world works. That’s when we made a painful choice—we cut her off.

Since then, Ethan’s been lighter, happier. We found support through other parents for pickups, and peace slowly returned.

One evening, while baking cookies, Ethan looked up and said, “Mom, I think our family is the best.”

I smiled through tears. “Me too, baby. Me too.”