Dad loved Christmas and having us there, but much of what he did was to make Mom happy. He turned the place into a gingerbread house, wrapping every outdoor surface in colorful twinkle lights, even climbing on the roof with a staple gun every year, just to make her smile. Our father couldn’t have cared less about us wearing matching holiday-themed pj’s. In fact, he confessed to me on multiple occasions how uncomfortable they were since he was so tall and they were always three inches too short, but he wore them with a smile because it brought her so much joy. And Dad’s favorite Christmas movie wasDie Hard.He only watched the ones that played twenty-four seven on cable because Mom was obsessed with them. Truth be told, it was why we watched them too.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Mom, he did all of that for you.”
Her face crumbles like a child whose parents just told her Santa isn’t real. “I see.”
She pushes back her chair, and it screeches against the hardwood floor as she bolts to her feet and starts gathering the dishes.
“Myra Jean.” Aunt Rose blows out a breath. “Sit back down.”
“Mom. Can we please just talk about this?” I ask, and she answers by snatching my plate and plunking it on top of her growing stack.
“It sounds like you’ve already made your decision,” Mom says, jutting out her chin. “Anyway, we should have dessert. I’ve got pecan pie, chocolate meringue, some sugar cookies, and I made your dad’s favorite pumpkin pie.” She sniffles. “Or maybe he pretended to like that too.”
I rub my temples as she storms from the dining room. “That went well.”
Aunt Rose gives me an empathetic smile. “Chin up, kid. You handled it the best you could. She’ll come around.”
I blow out a breath and rise to my feet. “We need to go after her.”
Ben and Lucy groan as they stand, but Aunt Rose doesn’t budge.
I narrow my eyes at her.
“Do I have to?” Rose pouts, and I reply by raising my brow and propping my hand on my hip.
“Fine.” She grimaces and grabs the last remaining roll in the bread basket, stuffing it in her mouth.
I attempt to push through the swinging door to the kitchen but am met with resistance followed by a shrill shriek.
“Oh no,” Ben mutters. “That doesn’t sound good.”
I ease the door open slowly this time. “Mom?”
An ear-splitting wail answers from the floor where my mother sits in a puddle of tears in front of a squashed pumpkin pie, the front of her cream dress covered in orange goo. Some of the custardy filling had even managed to splatter into her sleek, silver bob and onto her fair skin.
“Are you okay?” Lucy asks as we rush to her side.
“It’s ruined,” Mom answers, sucking in a breath between sobs. “Everything is ruined.”
Lucy lets out a soft laugh. “There’s no use crying over pumpkin pie. Come on. Let’s get this cleaned up.”
“No!” Her voice is so sharp it causes me to jump. “What’s the use, anyway? So you all can tell me you don’t want to spend Thanksgiving here, either? I’ve had quite enough.”
My hands tremble at my sides.
“Sister,” Aunt Rose scolds. “What is wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong withme?” Mom repeats. “This entire day has been a disaster.”
“That’s not true,” Ben begins, but she cuts him off.
“I do everything I can to keep the magic of the holidays alive. To keep your father’s memory alive. But apparently, that means nothing to you.”
I gasp. “Mother.” She’s being unfair, and I’m starting to wonder if she dropped the pie on purpose for added dramatic flair.
Lucy’s bottom lip quivers, and Ben’s face falls.
“You know what,” I say. “Maybe we should go and give you some space.”
