Prologue
Thetestssitonthe counter, eight pink lines, merciless in their clarity.
I press the heel of my palm to my chest, trying to slow the panic gathering there, but my breath comes in short, shallow bursts. Too fast. Too tight. The bathroom feels smaller with each inhale. Cold tiles bite into my knees as I collapse, pressing my head between my knees to keep sobs from escaping. They rip free anyway. I should be excited. This should mark the beginning of everything I’ve dreamed of.
Instead, I feel the weight of a thousand choices collapsing onto my shoulders. I close my eyes, and I’m ten again, alone on Christmas morning with the same hollow ache spreading through my chest.
I stare at the presents under the perfect tree as the clock chimes eight. I’ve been up since five, but I’m not allowed to open anything until my parents come downstairs. That’s my rule, not theirs. One of the only rules I cling to on the rare days when I can hope they’ll see me: Christmas and my birthday.
They can’t miss those… right?
Sunlight spills across the formal living room, catching on the golden ornaments arranged in the decorator’s vision of “tasteful elegance.” My handmade school ornaments don’t match; they’re banished to the little tree in my room.
Best kept out of sight, like me.
Madame Rousseau finds me still sitting in the same spot at nine, back stiff, fingers tracing invisible patterns on the rug, humming Christmas carols to myself.
“Ma petite.” Her French accent wraps around me like one of the warm scarves she always wears. “Your parents were at the Hendersons’ party late. They’ll be down later. Shall we have some breakfast?”
“How much longer do you think?” I ask, twisting the end of my braid around my finger.
Something flashes across her face—a quick crease between her eyebrows, there and gone. “I cannot say, Sydney. A few hours. Maybe more...”
I nod because I know what that means. I’m ten, not stupid.
Her hand squeezes my shoulder. “Tu es une fille courageuse.” You are a brave girl.
But I don’t feel brave. I feel invisible.
“And brave girls,” she says, “deserve a present they can open now.” From behind her back, she produces a small box wrapped in bright, cheerful paper.
A tear escapes before I can stop it. I wipe it, turning toward the window so she doesn’t see. Don’t show anyone you care, my father always says.
“Merci, ma Nounou.”
My fingers tremble as I peel back the wrapping. Inside is a copy of Little Women, the cover elegant, its pages waiting to be read. I press it to my chest. “I love it. May I start reading now?”
“Of course, ma chérie.”
I curl into the window seat and disappear into the March family’s Christmas. Their poverty doesn’t matter. Their house is noisy and warm, full of sisters who fight, love, and dream big. I can almost smell the cinnamon and pine, see the fire dancing in the hearth. I imagine I’m right there, sitting among the sisters, listening to Marmee read the letter from their Father. I pull my knees to my chest. My throat does that tight, scratchy thing like I’m about to cry—but I won’t. The clock chimes eleven, and I turn another page.
Grief has a way of looping back, stitching old pain into new moments. Steeling myself, I push up from the bathroom floor. I know what I have to do.
The only choice I have.
2009
She chose the gentle slope
over the uncertain climb, calling it wisdom.
One
Crispwinteraircutsthrough the open car doors, sharp enough to make my breath visible in small puffs. I pull my coat tighter, the soft wool a barrier against more than the cold. I’m twenty-six, and this is my first real family Christmas.
The Wallis family cabin rises from the snow-covered forest. The large wooden house is far grander than the quaint retreat I’d imagined, though even from here I can tell it bears no resemblance to the cold McMansion of my childhood. Candles line every window; a wreath hangs against the wood with its bright, cheerful red ribbon. A plastic Santa with reindeer stands guard out front, faded from years of devoted service.
I might not know much about a family Christmas, but I’m a pro at faking my way through anything. Shoulders squared, smile plastered, one deep breath. I know how to play a role. Perform. The one thing my parents taught me well.
