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Without making eye contact with Pierce—because I don’t want to see the pity in his eyes—I focus on Jordan. “No, Ladybug,” I tell her. “That’s for people who are in need.”
“But we need a tree!” she argues. “How is Santa gonna find us without a tree? We don’t even have a fireplace like Grandma and Grandpa have!”
“That’s not what an angel tree is for,” I explain. “It’s for children who need things like clothes.” She looks confused, and I can feel Pierce’s gaze on me, so I add, “I’ll explain when we get home.”
When I look at Pierce, so I can quickly say goodbye, I expect to find a look of pity in his eyes, but he’s done an excellent job of hiding it. Instead, he’s smiling softly at me, and I don’t know why, but somehow, it makes me even more emotional. Like, pity, I can handle. I can think to myself, ‘Fuck you, I don’t need you to feel bad for me.’ Only the look he’s giving me… I can’t explain it. It’s filled with warmth and makes me want to burrow myself into his arms, where I have no doubt I’d feel safe.
“Thank you for the money,” I tell him, praying my voice sounds normal, despite the lump of emotion lodged in my throat. “We’ll get out of your hair. I’m sure you have work to do.”
He opens his mouth to respond, when the door swings open and a little girl with blond pigtails comes running inside. “Uncle Pierce, where’s—” Before she can finish her sentence, her eyes land on Jordan. “Jordan! What are you doing here?” She throws her arms around my daughter and the two girls hug it out, giggling.
“Mommy and I made a cake for my daddy and brought the fireman a piece”—she points at Pierce—“’cause Mommy said he saved the cake.”
The little girl glances from Jordan to Pierce. “That’s my uncle Pierce. He saved the cake? Was it on fire?” Her eyes go big, and Jordan’s brows dip in confusion.
“I don’t think so, but the oven was really hot, and Mommy wouldn’t let me touch it till it was cold.”
Pierce and I both chuckle at the innocent conversation between the girls.
“You should come to my birthday!” the girl says, switching subjects so fast I get dizzy. “It’s tonight! I’m having a penguin and snowman party! We’re going to drink hot cocoa and watch Happy Feet ’cause it’s my favorite movie ever.”
“I’m sorry, Tilly, but I can’t go,” Jordan says, her voice small. “Mommy said you have to bring a present to parties, and we don’t have one.”
Jesus H. Christ. This cannot be happening. First, the money, then the tree. Now, of all people we run into, it’s Tilly, the little girl in Jordan’s class whose birthday party Jordan was invited to. She wanted to go so badly, but I didn’t have the money to buy a gift, and it would be rude to show up empty-handed. I hated telling her she couldn’t go, but I’ve seen how people talk about and treat those beneath them.
When I was in middle school, I had a friend who went to my private school on a scholarship. She couldn’t afford the designer labels everyone else wore, couldn’t buy the expensive gifts everyone else bought when we attended the parties, and the parents and students would whisper behind her back.
Christmas Valley seems like a nice place, but it’s clear most of the town is on the upper end of the income ladder. The last thing I want is for my daughter to be made fun of because she couldn’t afford to bring a gift to the party.
“My grandma gives me lots of presents,” Tilly says. “I can give you one, and then you can go!”
“Really?” Jordan says hopefully. “Can I go, Mommy?”
“Oh, umm…” My gaze flits from Jordan to Pierce, whose face has gone from soft to hard. God, he must think I’m the worst mother in the world.
My thoughts go back to what my mom said after Trent’s death as tears prick my eyes: You’re not mother material. You’re too young. You have no education. No income.
“We’ll see,” I choke out. “We need to go.” I take her hand, quickly mutter a goodbye, and rush out before Pierce can catch me crying.
“Mommy, you’re going too fast,” Jordan complains, yanking on my hand and forcing me to slow down.
“Sorry, Bug,” I mutter.
When we get home, I tell her it’s nap time. She doesn’t always fall asleep, but after school, I have her lie down to rest and unwind after the long school day. I don’t usually do this on the weekends, but I need a moment to myself after everything.
Thankfully, she doesn’t argue. After I’ve settled her into her bed and kissed her forehead, I close her door then go to my room. I cry softly into the pillow so that Jordan won’t hear—my mother’s words playing on repeat.
