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Chapter 5
Angel (December 1st, 2023)
“Yourmusicsucks,Pop.”Meg scrolls through my phone looking for music to play. It’s a rare Friday night where all three of us are home with no activities to distract from our family time.
She’s been using my phone since Trevor confiscated hers. So far, he’s refusing all my efforts to get it back. I’m still holding out hope I can reason with him. If not, replacing it is going to put a severe damper on my holiday shopping budget, but I’m not dwelling on that. Tonight, I am going to enjoy my time with my kids.
“Play Mariah,” Owen suggests as he sorts through the tangled ball of Christmas lights to get it ready for the tree. He has to push the floppy end of his green and red sequined elf hat out of his face. He still loves the goofy hat he got for a long-ago holiday themed dress-up day at school. It was the first thing he dug out of the box of decorations. “Bring on all the Christmas!” He throws up excited jazz hands that make Meg roll her eyes and sigh dramatically as she cues up his song request.
“Fine, I guess I can stream her.”
I open up the battered tree box. The kids and I always put up our Christmas tree on December first. It’s probably stupid to cling to my mom’s traditions years after she turned her back on me, but it gives the holidays some structure. That’s something I sorely need to get me through this season without breaking.
At least the upbeat music isn’t as depressing as some of the carols the kids could have picked. My family’s farm grows more than Christmas trees, but the fact we sold trees always meant Christmas was a big deal before I was cast out. Those memories are tarnished, but I still try to give my kids all the holiday magic I’m too jaded to feel anymore.
Saint and Carl’s duplex has been dripping with holiday lights for the better part of a month now, which he says is Carl’s doing. I know what a sap Saint is for the people he cares about though, so I’m certain he was right in the thick of things stringing them up.
Although, when I was there last night, Saint still didn’t have his tree up yet. I can’t help wondering what his tree trimming traditions are. Probably something with Carl. The thought of Saint smiling indulgently as Carl prods him into decorating makes me smile too.
Saint’s tree last year was a magazine-worthy confection of sparkling gold and silver tinsel and baubles. It was gorgeous, but didn’t reflect any of Saint’s sweet playfulness. Beautiful, but soulless compared to all the love packed into my family’s hodge-podge of memories.
Our scraggly artificial tree is older than Meg. It looks worse for wear when I dig it out of storage. Even so, it’s what we always use. Always. Trevor’s mom got it for us the Christmas I was pregnant with Meg.
I was still living in her finished basement and my own little tree was the first thing that made me feel like everything might be okay. She sat beside me by the light of this tree while the two of us stumbled through knitting the lumpy squares of a baby blanket for Meg. The blanket—and Trevor’s mom—gave me the permission I needed to fall in love with my baby. This tree gave me hope for our future.
So it might be small and ugly, but I get it assembled and fluff out the branches to make it look fuller with all the devotion of a ritual. Meg sorts idly through our box of ornaments as she texts her friends under the pretense of curating the playlist. I’m on to her tricks, but I’m just glad she’s making at least the token effort of spending time with us.
I’m so unbelievably proud of my daughter. She’s fiercely independent to the point I don’t really worry about her doing the sort of stupid things I did at her age seeking acceptance and my peer’s approval. It probably helps that she has an amazing group of close friends.
She’s cooler than I’ll ever be. Even though most of her wardrobe is thrifted, she wears her vintage apparel with poise. My eldest has all of Trevor’s acerbic wit and the humor that first drew me to him with almost none of his meanness. She’s brilliant and funny and heartbreakingly responsible.
It’s a lifesaver when she helps with Owen’s homework and getting ready for school. My heart wants to burst with pride, but my guilt can be overwhelming. For all that they have their moments of sibling rivalry, she adores her baby brother. I do my best not to put too much on her young shoulders.
I still wish I could be around more so Meg wouldn’t feel like she needs to take on so much. So many people have rolled their eyes at me for refusing to treat her like a built-in babysitter for her brother. But not making Owen her responsibility unless Meg is willing and fairly compensated isn’t negotiable for me.
“Here, you’ll like this one, Owen.” Meg plays another song.
“Oh, yes! Turn it up?” Owen sings along.
Meg smiles indulgently at him as she turns up the holiday music. She watches him dancing in place—his elf hat in danger of flopping right off his head—as he continues to untangle the lights.
They never fail to brighten my mood when they’re being silly together like this. That assuages my guilt over Meg having to grow up so fast. Family helps each other. I couldn’t have asked for two better kids. Meg calls me on my bullshit, practical to a fault. Owen, my sweet little goober, has been a ray of pure sunshine from the moment I first brought him home. He was the smiliest baby I’ve ever met, and he somehow hasn’t outgrown that cheerfulness.
“Ready for the lights, Pop?” Owen holds up the glowing strand. The kid’s nimble fingers somehow have the entire tangled mess sorted out in the time it took me to assemble the tree. Even though he was bopping along to Meg’s playlist the entire time.
“Just about.” I adjust the top few branches and reach for the lights. “Alright, let’s get this place lit.”
“Yes! Wait,litlike lighting all the tree lights, or like how Meg uses it?” Owen glances earnestly between us.
“Lit isn’t a thing anymore,” Meg informs me. Or maybe both of us, because Owen nods.
“No cap?” I tease her.
“Pop!” Meg groans. “No. Just because you want to teach the youth doesn’t mean you get to try speaking like us.”
“Yeah, Pop. It sounds weird when you try to talk like Meg,” Owen adds as he scrambles to his feet. He promptly trips over the strand of lights he’s trying to hand me, all gawky limbs from growing another inch in the past month. How are they both growing up so damn fast?
It’s like I’m watching the scene unfold in slow motion as he stumbles to correct the fall and lurches right into the damn tree. I grab for his shoulders, holding him up as the tree goes crashing to the ground. It takes everything in me not to burst into tears at the sharp crack of breaking plastic as two of the four legs snap off the base.
