“I’m sorry, Sarah. It’s just not going to work out this year.” She started to close the door, then paused. “Maybe you could come by tomorrow afternoon for a bit. After we’ve cleaned up.”
The door clicked shut, leaving me standing there with my four-year-old son, Jake, and Emma, both too young to fully understand what had just happened, but old enough to sense something was very wrong.
As we walked back to my car, I could hear the celebration continuing inside. Jennifer’s boys were laughing, probably tearing into presents while sitting in the same spots where Emma and Jake should have been. Through the large front window, I caught a glimpse of the dining room table set for eight people, my parents, Jennifer, her husband, Mark, their twins, and even Jennifer’s mother-in-law, whom I’d met maybe three times in my life. Eight people in a house that had comfortably seated fifteen during countless Christmas dinners.
“Mommy, are we still having Christmas?” Emma asked from her car seat as I sat in the driveway, trying to compose myself.
“Of course, baby. We’re going to have the best Christmas ever,” I said, wiping away tears I hoped she couldn’t see in the dark.
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