🌙 Garden Chair Chronicles Vol 3 – The Envelope That Changed Everything

 “It wasn’t just a card. It was the moment I stopped making excuses for other people’s choices.”

It’s June now.

Easter has long since passed, the chocolate’s melted, and the kids have moved on to their next chaos cycle — but I haven’t. Not really.

Because that Easter card is still lodged in my throat like a sentence I never got to finish.

But to be honest, this didn’t start in April.

It started back in February, on Hunter’s birthday.

My nan came down — just her.

My grandad doesn’t speak to me anymore, because staying quiet is apparently easier than facing the discomfort of truth. His silence is his allegiance. His daughter comes first — no matter what that’s cost me, or what it’s now costing my kids.

She stayed for an hour.

Long enough to drop off a pile of cards. One of them? From my mum — the same mum I’ve had to go no contact with to keep my sanity and my kids safe.

And I still tried.

Still let it happen. Still gave them the benefit of the doubt. Still stood there, smile nailed on, stomach in knots, pretending it didn’t feel like betrayal gift-wrapped in glitter.

But I saw Hunter’s face.

He looked so confused.

That kind of quiet confusion that doesn’t cry or shout — it just sits, heavy, on little shoulders that were never built to carry that kind of weight.

So I said something.

“I don’t mind you bringing cards — but not from my mum. It’s hurting the kids.”

And my nan’s reply?

“You’re the problem.”

course I am.

Because it’s easier to blame the person setting boundaries than to ask why those boundaries needed to exist in the first place.

So I backed away. Told myself I was done. That I’d tried everything. That maybe this was just one more loss I’d have to grieve quietly.

Then came Easter.

An envelope comes through the letterbox. Addressed to Hunter. Just him.

And for half a second, I still believed — maybe she listened.

Maybe this one would be different.

Hunter opened it. Read it.

And his face changed. He went from ten-year-old Easter excitement to… nothing. Blank. Still. Like someone had pulled the air out of him.

And then, without saying a word, he moved to tear the card in half.

I grabbed it from him before he could.

Inside?

“Dear Hunter, Hugo and Rosie…”

So the message was for all three.

But only Hunter’s name was on the envelope.

Do you know what kind of damage that does to a child?

What it teaches them about who matters?

What it suggests, silently, about who carries the load for everyone else?

Hunter is ten.

He’s kind, gentle, emotionally wired like his mum.

He’s my firstborn. Their first great-grandchild.

And they used him — whether they meant to or not — as a messenger in a guilt-laced game of emotional chess.

And what was the message?

That they’d no longer be giving money for birthdays, Easter, or Christmas — they’d be “saving it up” for when the kids are older.

Right.

Because if there’s one thing a ten-year-old boy wants in his Easter card, it’s a financial disclaimer.

He doesn’t care about the money.

He wanted to feel included. Loved. Thought of. Not isolated by an envelope and handed the emotional labour of an entire family breakdown.

And the closing line?

“Please don’t ever forget that Grandad and me love you all so very very much.”

Except Grandad doesn’t speak to me.

And if this is love, I’d rather they send silence.

Because at least silence is honest.

I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried.

I’ve spun this around in my head a thousand times.

Tried to see it from all sides. Tried to be understanding. Tried to remember they’re old, they’re tired, they’re caught in the middle.

But Hunter’s ten.

He’s a child. Not a bridge.

Not a peace offering.

Not a damn envelope.

And let’s just hope — really hope — that the money they’re saving for him won’t be what pays for the therapy he’ll need one day to untangle all the emotional knots they handed him in glittery handwriting.

Because I’ve been there.

I know what it’s like to carry that kind of confusion.

And I won’t let my kids be weighed down by the same silence, the same guilt, the same selective love dressed up as tradition.

So now I sit here. Garden chair.

No grand statements. No big finale.

Just me.

Done bending.

Done absorbing.

Done handing out other people’s emotional mess like it’s part of the celebration.

They can keep their cards.

I’ll keep my children’s peace