It’s just a rough plan.”
“It has twenty-three names on it, Daniel.”
“Mom—”
“Mine isn’t one of them.”
He sighed.
“Can we not do this right now?”
The words were so familiar that I almost apologized.
Instead, I asked, “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why am I not coming for Christmas?”
He lowered his voice.
“Natalie’s got a lot going on.
Her sister’s bringing the kids, and Claire and Eric are coming over.
We’ve already arranged where everyone sleeps.”
“I don’t need a bedroom.
I can drive home.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
Another pause.
“Christmas is complicated, Mom.”
I looked around my quiet kitchen.
“Not this complicated.”
“Please don’t make Natalie feel bad.
She’s worked really hard on this.”
I thought about the screen going black when Nathan asked his question.
“She ended his call because he asked why I wasn’t coming.”
“She probably needed her phone.”
“Daniel.”
“Look, we’ll get together after Christmas.
I promise.”
I had heard those words before.
We would get together after Christmas.
We would have a special dinner.
We would make up for the missed holiday.
Sometimes we did have dinner.
Sometimes somebody canceled.
But nothing ever replaced the feeling of being the only family member who didn’t belong in the family photograph.
“All right,” I said.
He sounded relieved.
“Thanks, Mom.
Love you.”
“Love you too.”
I ended the call and sat there for another minute.
Then I picked up my phone again.
This time, I called my daughter.
Claire answered in the car.
“Hey, Mom.
What’s up?”
“Are you spending Christmas at Daniel’s?”
“Yeah.
Why?”
“Because I was wondering why I wasn’t invited.”
“Oh, Mom.
Please.”
“I’m asking a question.”
“Daniel and Natalie are hosting.
It’s their decision.”
“You’re bringing Eric’s parents, aren’t you?”
She hesitated.
“They’re stopping by for dinner.”
“And your cousins?”
“Some of them.”
“Claire, I saw the schedule.”
She made an impatient sound.
“Well, maybe they just figured you’d be more comfortable at home.”
“Who figured that?”
“Everybody knows Christmas has been hard for you since Dad died.”
I felt something tighten beneath my ribs.
“Did anyone ask me what would make it easier?”
“Mom, I can’t have this conversation while I’m driving.”
“Then pull over when you can.”
“Evelyn.”
She only called me Evelyn when she wanted to sound like the adult in the conversation.
“I don’t know what you want us to say.”
“The truth would be a good start.”
She took a breath.
“You’re making this into something bigger than it is.”
“Five Christmases, Claire.”
“Here we go.”
“Five Christmases.”
“You’re counting?”
“Yes.”
“That’s really unhealthy, Mom.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak.
I had been counting because each Christmas hurt.
She made it sound as though remembering was the problem.
“Are you saying I’ve been wrong to notice?”
“I’m saying you hold on to things.
Dad’s been gone for years, and sometimes it feels like everyone has to be sad around you.”
That landed harder than the excuses about roads and bedrooms.
Robert had been gone for six years.
I had cried through that first Christmas, certainly.
I had cried during the second one too.
But I’d also gone to school concerts, baked birthday cakes, laughed at terrible jokes, and spent afternoons watching Nathan build complicated towers from wooden blocks.
I wasn’t living in permanent mourning.
I was living without my husband.
There was a difference.
“Is that how you see me?”
