Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 289(@200wpm)___ 231(@250wpm)___ 193(@300wpm)
But there was something about the memory of the lovingly wrapped gifts from my grandparents, complete with glittering bows, that I couldn’t replicate.
This was the last one, though. The final Christmas I’d spend all alone. Starting next year, I’d have a beautiful son or daughter to make my own memories with. I’d already started cross-stitching a stocking with an elaborate winter scene that I’d add my baby’s name to when I chose one and hang up every year in our home. I’d seen stockings like this one in a magazine once as a kid and thought they were magical.
I knew now that it wasn’t the stocking that was magical, but the love someone put into it just for you, adding your name and making sure you had something special. My child would feel that love every day.
After a cleansing breath, I got up from the couch and took a shower. It was late morning and I was feeling fairly human today. The gingerbread cookies were long gone, and they had tasted amazing. Since I didn’t have much in the way of groceries, I went into the kitchen and started making scrambled eggs and toast.
In the living room, “Jingle Bell Rock” was playing. I was just one song from the end of the record. The thought of introducing my baby to the songs my grandparents had danced to while we decorated our tree made me smile.
How I missed them. For a long time, I’d been completely alone, and I’d told myself I was fine with it. Since becoming friends with Marlowe and Beau, though, I’d been happier. I had people who cared enough to check in when I was sick. People who wanted to spend time with me. It was nice.
I’d never envisioned getting to know Beau or meeting his family. I was grateful for the time we’d had together, though. One day, many years from now, I hoped to tell my child about the man who had given me the greatest gift of my life, and his family. No names, of course. I’d just tell my son or daughter about the bright, warm people who were all a small part of our little family of two.
As I ate, a text popped up on my phone.
Marlowe: It’s too early in the day for family throwdowns about politics. I’m not even buzzed yet. How are you feeling?
Me: Better, actually. I just ate some eggs and toast and I think I’m going to binge watch Bridgerton. Again.
Marlowe: I’m jealous. Tell my husband Anthony I’m ready and waiting.
Me: Done. Good luck with the family.
I carried my dishes over to the sink, about to wash them when there was a knock at my door. I furrowed my brow. Marlowe or Beau?
It was doubtful it was Marlowe, because I’d just been texting with her. My heart raced as I ran my fingers through my unbrushed hair and looked down at my outfit.
I was wearing my comfiest pajama pants, which were flannel with the Grinch all over them, a worn-out University of Chicago Law School T-shirt, and a furry yellow bathrobe. Shit.
The knock sounded again, and I cringed. It had to be Beau, determined to drag me to Christmas dinner with his family. This was a worst-case scenario. I looked like hell, my cheeks tear-stained and my hair wild. I wasn’t up for seeing people today. Beau couldn’t possibly understand why just walking into his parents’ home with a beautiful tree and a big, loving family would likely make me burst into tears.
Steeling myself, I went to the door, unlocked it, and opened it, about to greet Beau when I stopped short. I just stared, my lips parted with shock.
It wasn’t Beau standing at my door, but my mother.
I hadn’t seen or heard from her in more than three years, but she looked a decade older than the last time I’d seen her. Her hair was a faded shade of dark brown with about two inches of gray roots showing, and she didn’t look like she had any makeup on, which was unusual for her. By the dark circles under her eyes, I knew she hadn’t slept recently.
“Hey,” she said softly, smiling. “Can I come in?”
“Um, yeah.” I stepped aside and she walked in.
She wore rubber slide sandals with socks. Not a great choice when it was snowing. Good choices weren’t her strong suit, though.
“Hey, leave those shoes at the door and I’ll go get you some slippers,” I said. “Your feet have to be freezing.”
She slipped out of the shoes and set them on the mat next to my door. “They are. I’ve been living in California, so I don’t even have a coat.”
One of the pockets on her oversized hoodie was hanging by a thread and the restaurant logo on the back was faded. As much as I resented my mom, it jarred me to see her this way. I imagined her drifting between widowed men with enough money to take care of her.