It didn’t have to be expensive.
That was what everyone said.
But of course people made it competitive anyway.
One girl’s older sister had painted a huge watercolor portrait of their childhood home.
A guy from the football team received a custom shadow box filled with his first jersey, game tickets, photographs, and pieces of turf from the stadium.
My best friend, Hannah, had a brother studying film at NYU.
He made her a twelve-minute documentary with childhood videos, interviews from teachers, drone footage of our town, and a soundtrack that sounded like it belonged in a movie trailer.
Then there was my family.
My mother had chosen my younger brother, Ethan, to make my gift.
Ethan was sixteen.
He had Down syndrome.
And from the moment Mom told me, I hated myself for the first thought that entered my mind.
What if people laughed?
Not because Ethan wasn’t capable.
