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As tragic as it was, Heidi’s death was just an accident.
Michael hadn't done anything wrong. He hadn't made a conscious decision to run over his twenty-month-old daughter.
On the other hand, she was one hundred percent responsible for the mistakes she had made.
Their pasts were different, and while both had impacted them and the people they had grown into, that didn't mean that there were any more similarities than that.
Deep down, Michael knew that was true.
That was why he had backtracked last night.
He’d made it sound like he loved her, but then he’d covered, said he just loved her as a friend, and in that moment, Samara had realized that she was disappointed. She wanted Michael to like her. She wanted him to love her like she had never been loved before. She wanted someone to love her, she wanted to matter to someone, to be important to someone, to be cared about and cared for.
Wasn’t that what everyone wanted?
It was just looking less and less likely that she would ever get it.
“Samara?”
“Yeah?” She blinked and tried to hide the tears building in her eyes.
“What next?”
This was silly.
She and Michael had never been anything more than friends, so why did it feel like she had just lost a piece of herself?
“Umm, soil next,” she said, passing him a bag.
He sprinkled some in and then looked at her expectantly.
“You need to prune the branch at a forty-five-degree angle,” she said, pointing to the shears. “Then you put the cutting into the soil, about an inch deep, and water it in.”
“That’s it?” he asked, following her instructions.
“For now. Once it starts to grow, then we get to work.”
“I can't wait to grow ones like these.” Michael stood and surveyed her collection, stopping in front of one in particular.“This one looks like a Christmas tree.”
“It’s a Colorado Blue Spruce,” she corrected automatically. It was a lame comeback, Samara knew that because Colorado Blue Spruces were often used as Christmas trees. She just didn't like the thought of having anything Christmassy in her house.
“Let’s go back inside, it’s cold out,” Michael said, taking her hand and leading her from the covered porch back into the sunroom. He guided her to the couch and very gently pushed her down onto it, sitting beside her.
She knew what he was going to say even before he spoke the words.
“Why do you hate Christmas so much, Samara?”
She wanted to ignore him.
Or claim ignorance, pretend that she had no problem with the holiday, but he would know she was lying. If she didn't hate Christmas, then her house would be decorated with twinkly lights, tinsel, and a tree.
“You know why,” she muttered helplessly. Couldn’t Michael see that she didn't want to talk about this?
“Because of your family,” he said.
Samara nodded. “I didn't have a family. Well, not the normal kind anyway. I’ve never had a real Christmas, not that I can remember at least. Maybe before my mom left, but I was too young.”
“You were three when she left, right?”
