Chapter 16 - One Little Boy, One Forgotten Christmas Card
The envelope appeared in the pocket of Felix's ruined Christmas sweater.
I found it while sorting through the clothes we'd brought home from my parents' house.
The sweater had been sealed in a bag after the clinic visit.
I'd kept it because it might be relevant to the documentation of his injury.
Inside the small front pocket was a folded Christmas card.
It was green.
Decorated with a crooked red bow.
And addressed in Felix's careful handwriting:
TO GRANDMA. LOVE, FELIX.
I sat down on the edge of my bed.
For several seconds, I simply held it.
Then I opened it.
Inside was a drawing of my parents' house.
A smiling woman stood beside a Christmas tree.
A small boy held a cake.
Underneath, Felix had written:
I HOPE THIS CHRISTMAS MAKES YOU HAPPY. I LOVE YOU EVEN WHEN YOU ARE BUSY.
I stared at those words until the letters blurred.
I love you even when you are busy.
My son had been making excuses for my mother's emotional absence.
Just as I'd done my entire life.
When I was eight, I convinced myself my mother missed my school performance because she had important responsibilities.
When I was twelve, I told myself she forgot my birthday because Silas had been sick.
When I graduated from college, I pretended not to mind that my parents spent most of the celebration discussing my brother's expensive summer program.
I'd learned to turn disappointment into understanding.
Then I'd unknowingly taught Felix to do the same.
That realization hurt worse than anything Silas had said.
I found Felix downstairs arranging his dinosaurs on the carpet.
"Buddy?"
He looked up.
"Yeah?"
I held out the card.
"Did you make this for Grandma?"
His expression changed.
"Oh."
"Did you forget to give it to her?"
He nodded.
"She was busy."
I sat beside him.
"Felix, can I ask you something?"
"Okay."
"Did you feel like Grandma didn't have time for you?"
He shrugged.
The movement was painfully familiar.
"Sometimes."
"How did that make you feel?"
He considered the question.
"Like maybe I was talking too much."
I swallowed.
"Why?"
"Because she always tells me to be quiet when Uncle Silas talks."
I looked at the dinosaurs.
A plastic T. rex stood beside a tiny triceratops.
Felix picked one up.
"Dad?"
"Yes?"
"Was I bad at Christmas?"
"No."
"Really?"
"Really."
He lowered his eyes.
"But Grandma got mad."
I gently turned toward him.
"Felix, adults sometimes make wrong choices. Sometimes very wrong choices. Children aren't responsible for managing grown-ups' anger."
He absorbed that quietly.
Then asked a question I hadn't anticipated.
"Did Grandma make you feel bad when you were little, too?"
I stared at him.
Children sometimes see things adults spend decades refusing to acknowledge.
"Sometimes, buddy."
He leaned against me.
"Then I'm sorry."
I wrapped my arm around him.
"You don't need to be sorry for that."
We sat together for a long time.
Then Felix picked up the Christmas card.
"Can I still keep it?"
"Of course."
"Even though I don't want to give it to her anymore?"
"Especially then. It's yours."
He placed it inside his dinosaur book.
That evening, I made an appointment with a child therapist who specialized in helping children process frightening family experiences.
I also arranged individual counseling for myself.
Not because I wanted somebody to tell me who was right or wrong.
Because I needed to understand why I'd tolerated a relationship that repeatedly made both of us feel small.
A week later, Rebecca forwarded a message from my father's attorney.
Walter Mercer wished to provide a written statement regarding his knowledge of Titan's financial arrangements and the Christmas incident.
He also wanted to send Felix something.
I declined direct contact with my son.
But I agreed to review the statement through counsel.
It was nine pages long.
And on the final page, my father admitted something he'd never said aloud before.
I knew Eleanor treated Gideon unfairly. I allowed it because Gideon was the child who would forgive us, while Silas was the child I feared losing.
I set the document down.
For the first time, my father had described our family without pretending everything had been normal.
It wasn't enough to repair thirty-eight years.
May you like
But it was a beginning.
A beginning that would have to exist without any expectation that Felix or I owed him forgiveness.
