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‘Or maybe there’s a third option? How about gratitude? Wanting you to feel affection? Warmth?
Conversations that didn’t start and end with who could hurt whom worse or whatever version of hell
you were too scared to face this Christmas?’
Her eyes grew bright with unshed tears. Furiously, she blinked them away. ‘I don’t need you to
deliver whatever message you feel you need to deliver. I’ve survived holidays with my family for the better part of two decades.’
‘And you still choose to accept things the way they are? What are you, Graciela? Deluded or
coward?’
The blood drained from her face, her eyes turning into twin pools of torment.
I dragged my fingers through my hair as my words replayed in the shocked silence.
What the hell was wrong with me?
Showing her that her powerful words had changed my relationship with my mother was one thing.
But this...?
Hell, I hadn’t even got around to telling her why we celebrated Christmas on the twenty-fourth
instead of on the traditional Christmas Day we used to celebrate in England.
She started to walk away. I held on. ‘Wait. There’s something I need to tell you...’
‘You want to give me more of the same, you mean?’ Her voice was ragged, her face still tight.
‘I’m sorry. Dammit, that came out wrong. So fucking wrong.’
She held my gaze for a blazing moment. ‘I can’t leave without appearing rude. I can’t order you to
take me away from here because that would make me a bitch who’s stealing the precious son away at
Christmas. So I guess I’m fully immersed in your little experiment, aren’t I?’
Without waiting for my response, she darted into the living room, the centre of revelry. For the rest of the evening, she placed at least half a room width between us, finding an excuse to distance herself whenever I got close.
If my mother and stepfather noticed, they decided on diplomatic silence. Merete, my sister,
however, repeatedly shot me questioning glances, which I silently warned her not to vocalise.
Merete tended to shoot her mouth off before she engaged her brain. As much as I loved her, I
wasn’t in the mood to accommodate her adorable foibles tonight.
Not when I could feel the woman who’d gained monumental importance in my existence slipping
through my fingers. The loud, obnoxious gong sounded for dinner. I rushed to my feet, crossed the
room towards Graciela.
She ignored me, turning instead to Mikkel, Merete’s five-year-old son, who’d spent most of the
evening gazing at her in wide-eyed adoration. ‘Would you like to show me where I’m sitting,