Chapter 9: Christmas Distance
Holiday season arrived with its usual pressure to perform unity.
Savannah sent Christopher a message about Christmas morning and “not punishing the family.” He drafted a reply and showed me: Christmas at our house would not include overnight guests who had not repaired the breach; a meal at a neutral restaurant was possible if civility held; my kitchen was not a rehabilitation site for entitlement. I suggested one edit—remove the editorial about entitlement, keep the terms. He sent it. Savannah did not answer for four days. Then a single line: Fine.
May you like
We ate Christmas lunch at a quiet restaurant with tablecloths and no chore lists. Derek shook my hand. Savannah’s smile did not reach her eyes. Christopher paid the bill without looking at me for approval. In the parking lot Savannah said, stiffly, that the motel had been temporary and they had a studio now. I said I was glad they had walls of their own. She waited for more—an invitation, a softening. I gave her the truth that I had space in my chest for her success and none for her lists. She got into the truck. Christopher watched them go and exhaled.
At home I put a small bouquet of winter branches on the table and did not set a fourth place for a ghost of obligation. We watched a film. He washed the glasses. I dried. The house ticked and settled. For the first time since November I slept through the hour of 11:07 without waking as if suitcases might roll over the threshold again.
