“You thought I would do it.”
Her breath caught. “Yes.”
The truth sat there, plain and heavy.
I looked out at the ocean. A fishing boat moved slowly across the horizon.
“Becca, I have always loved having the grandchildren. But love does not mean I am available without being asked. It does not mean my time belongs to everyone else.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
She did not answer.
I pictured her at thirty-nine, hair probably twisted into the messy bun she wore when stressed, phone pressed to her ear, surrounded by children and luggage and the consequences of an assumption. I remembered her at seven, crying because she thought Santa would forget the neighbor’s dog. She had always felt everything strongly. Somewhere along the way, she had learned to move fast enough not to feel too much.
“I don’t know how to fix this before tomorrow,” she said.
“Maybe tomorrow does not need fixing.”
“But it’s Christmas.”
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”
Her voice broke. “The kids miss you.”
“I miss them too.”
“Then come home.”
The words pulled at me with old force. My body almost obeyed before my heart could answer. Come home. Open the door. Start the oven. Smooth everything over.
But outside, the ocean kept moving.
“No,” I said gently.
Becca made a sound like she had been slapped, though I had spoken softly.
“I will call them later,” I added. “I would love to wish them Merry Christmas Eve.”
“You’re really not coming?”
“No.”
When we hung up, I sat very still.
June, who had pretended not to listen from across the room, slid a napkin toward me.
“I’m not crying,” I said.
“Of course not. That’s for the table. It looks emotional.”
I laughed and cried at the same time.
By noon, I was walking through the town market with June. Stalls lined the square beneath strings of lights. Vendors sold candles, ornaments, knitted hats, jars of jam, watercolor paintings, and paper bags of roasted nuts. A children’s choir sang beside the courthouse steps, their voices bright and uneven.
I bought eight small shell ornaments, each painted with a child’s name in careful blue script. Not because I felt guilty. Because I loved them.
Then I bought one for myself.
Evelyn, it said.