When the tweebs sit back down, we all look around the table.
Everyone is smiling.
And that causes a bittersweet pang in my heart. I like Liesel’s family. Heck, I love them. I never would have imagined being so happy on Christmas Day without my parents.
But no matter how much I’m enjoying being here, the more the day goes on, the more it hurts that my parents aren’t even trying to talk to me.
Anyone can text, “I miss you.”
It’s different to see it on their faces or hear it in their voices. I excuse myself to go to the bathroom, and I close the toilet lid and sit on it. I try to FaceTime my parentsagain.
It rings.
They don’t answer.
A moment later, I get a text.
Mom
Can’t talk right now, but we love you! How are you?
My anger and hurt bubble up to the surface, and I do something I’ve never in my life done.
I get mad at my mom.
Coop
What the heck, Mom? What is so important that you can’t take my call on Christmas Day?
This hurts.
I’m immediately racked with guilt. She’s coping the best she can. She’s not some negligent parent who doesn’t care about me. I try to unsend the messages, but it’s too late. They’ve been delivered. Read.
I pinch my temples, feeling sick and sad and … forgotten.
And when she doesn’t immediately reply, I dash angry tears from my cheeks.
I’m done. Not forever, but for now. The pain of this disappointment and hurt have cut through layers I thought had healed years ago, and I’m left with a seeping wound that I have to stop poking at.
I flip my phone to do not disturb. I’ve never held a grudge against her, and I don’t know that I even do now.
But I can’t pretend this doesn’t affect me. It’s one thing that we can’t see each other today. That’s no one’s fault. It’s another that she’s shutting me out, refusing to talk to me, choosing something over me.
The axe has cut deeply into my trunk, and it’s going to take time to heal.
I splash cold water on my face and leave the bathroom. The Fischers are all getting on their winter coats, boots, and hats.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Another Fischer family tradition,” Liesel says, smiling. “Come on.”
It’s freezing cold, the snow is up to our knees, and the tweebs have made hundreds of snowballs. The yard is probably half an acre—plenty of space to throw a ball around—but we’re not hurling more snowballs at each other.
We’re hitting them with baseball bats.
Logan and Lucas have cleared a space big enough for them to stand in, and Liesel, Bruce, and I have all done the same. And Bruce tromps a path large enough to look like a crude baseball diamond for the fun of it.
The three of us—Bruce, Liesel, and me—are holding bats, standing at imaginary plates, as Logan and Lucas throw them past us.
