Chapter 14: A Quieter Christmas
December arrived with less voltage.
I asked Claire early what the children needed from me and what she could protect on her side. We agreed on Christmas morning at my house—pajamas, cinnamon rolls, gifts chosen without Brandon’s commentary on expense—and Christmas afternoon returned to their apartment so the Whitaker rituals could proceed without my doorway. Brandon, Claire reported, called the split “petty.” Donna called it “a shame.” The children called it “two Christmases” with the cheer of the young for volume. I wrapped packages and refused to narrate the adults.
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On Christmas morning Lily put a paper crown on my head and declared me queen of the pancakes. Owen placed a wooden train under the tree for me with his own allowance tape. Claire filmed nothing for distant audiences. We ate. We opened. We sat—me at the head without a speech, the children knees-up in their chairs, Claire’s face soft with a fatigue that was only parenting, not performance.
When they left at two, the house exhaled. I sat in the chair with a second cup of coffee and allowed the memory of the previous Christmas to rise and fall without owning the day. The gravy boat remained in the cabinet. The navy sweater was not under my tree. The deed was still in the drawer. Enough.
