Page 79 of Elf-ish

My eyes go wide. That’s not what I’m saying. “I never said you aren’t good enough. You’re plenty good.”

He’s trying so hard to complete the assignment I gave him. The list. He donated a crazy amount of money to A Snowball’s Chance and gave of his time last weekend at the breakfast. He’s different. I can see it now.

“But not good enough,” he counters, his voice like acid. “You want me to be better.”

I don’t want anything from him. I want him to want to be better for himself. Less extravagance and more joy. Less loneliness and more love.

“Yeah, I get it,” he states, though he clearly doesn’t because I’m not explaining myself well.

He takes a giant step back, putting more space between us, and bumps into the edge of the table.

“Everything is always pretend. Never as it seems. Just like Santa Claus, it’s all a lie.” His voice rises.

I gasp at the same time I hear, “Santa isn’t real?”

With shock, Jude and I both turn our heads toward my youngest nephew, who is standing in the kitchen archway in winter pajamas and with wet hair. Crap.

“Devin, what are you doing down here?” I rush to pick him up, pressing a kiss to his temple, catching a sharp whiff of baby shampoo on him, while I glance at Jude.

He closes his eyes, the expression on his face reading, Fuck!

“He just said Santa was a lie.” Devin’s little voice trembles.

“He said Santa likes pie,” I try to deflect.

“Mommy says lying is bad,” he replies, fixated as young children can be.

Shit, shit, shit. My sister is going to kill me for this one, but I can’t take my eyes off Jude, who looks devastated, and I can’t decide if it’s from our discussion or the sudden crush of a child’s beliefs.

“I’m sorry,” Jude mumbles, eventually opening his eyes, which are back to their icicle gaze. I don’t like that I’m the reason for the sudden, distant coldness in his eyes when they were starting to thaw over the past few days, growing warmer, like puddles of hope.

He brushes past me, and I spin toward the dining room as he rips a container of cookies with his name written on it like he is part of the family off the table.

“Jude. Wait,” I call after him, but he doesn’t turn around.

“Maggie,” he states aloofly, addressing Gran, who stands at the opposite end of the dining room as he passes her.

“Christmas,” I hear him say next, knowing my sister must be near the open living room door, seeking her escape-artist child.

“The day has been a pleasure,” he states, sounding like a robot, reminding me how he suddenly shut down the day we’d been shopping.

When moments of fun collided with a hasty exit.

Like the exit he’s making right now.

“What the hell happened?” Aunt Gertie’s voice startles me, and I spin to find her standing in the back exit. The space leads out of Gran’s kitchen to a set of enclosed stairs, like a fire escape. Every apartment building in Chicago has two entrances and exits for fire safety.

I cling to Devin for another second until Christmas enters the dining room.

“Devin,” she groans.

The boy lunges toward his mother, who holds out her hands for him.

“That man said Santa is a lie.” His tiny voice quivers as he lays his head on Christmas’s shoulder.

Christmas glares at me. “What man?”

“Mr. Jude”