Chapter 18 - CHRISTMAS, ONE YEAR LATER
Dad cooked turkey.
Badly.
Not dangerously.
Just badly.
Bryce brought mashed potatoes from a restaurant and poured them into a ceramic bowl so Dad could pretend everything was homemade.
I caught him.
“I saw that.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Container’s in the trash.”
“Evidence suppression.”
“Runs in the family.”
He laughed so hard he nearly dropped the gravy.
The house looked different.
Smaller tree.
Fewer decorations.
No executives.
No customers.
No board members.
No cameras.
Dad had sold Mercer Manor during the divorce and moved into a modest brick house outside Richmond.
Mom’s restored photograph hung above the fireplace.
The one I had planned to give Dad the previous Christmas.
I finally gave it to him in March.
He cried.
Of course he claimed dust.
At 6:30, the doorbell rang.
I looked at Dad.
“Who is that?”
He looked suspiciously innocent.
“I invited someone.”
“If it’s a reporter, I’m leaving.”
“Relax.”
He opened the door.
Malcolm Reed.
Behind him stood Rosa and her husband.
Then Carla.
Then Hannah Cole.
I stared.
Dad lifted both hands.
“No corporate speeches.”
“You invited half the investigation.”
“They’re friends.”
“You have weird friends.”
“So do you.”
Fair.
Dinner was chaotic.
Normal chaotic.
Hannah brought pie.
Rosa argued with Dad about turkey.
Malcolm told stories about Mom.
Bryce listened harder than anyone.
At one point, Malcolm described Mom screaming at Dad because he wanted to fire a driver who had dented a truck.
“I was right,” Dad said.
“You were wrong,” Malcolm replied.
“He hit a pole.”
“Because you scheduled a fourteen-hour route.”
Dad pointed his fork.
“That was legal then.”
Mom would have destroyed him for that answer.
Everyone laughed.
For a few hours, nobody mentioned Northstar.
Audits.
Federal charges.
Shares.
Ownership.
Then Dad stood.
Bryce groaned.
“You promised no speeches.”
Dad sat back down immediately.
Everyone laughed harder.
“No speech,” he said.
He lifted his glass while seated.
“Just thank you.”
That was all.
No Bryce promotion.
No Leah medals.
No business success.
Just thank you.
I lifted mine.
Later that night, I stepped outside.
Snow had begun falling.
Small flakes.
Nothing like last year’s storm.
Dad joined me.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
He shoved his hands into his coat pockets.
“I’m glad you came.”
“So am I.”
He stared at the snow.
“I almost called you five times this week to make sure.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“You said yes once.”
I looked at him.
“That stopped you?”
“I’m learning.”
Progress.
After a moment he said:
“I still think about last Christmas.”
“So do I.”
“If I could change the phone call—”
“You can’t.”
“I know.”
“You can change the next one.”
He nodded.
“That’s what I’m trying to do.”
Inside, Bryce shouted that someone had eaten the last piece of pie.
Rosa yelled that he had already had two.
Dad smiled.
“That’s our cue.”
Before going inside, I looked at the snow.
One year earlier, I had believed being excluded from Christmas proved something about my place in the family.
I was wrong.
It proved something about theirs.
Belonging was not a chair someone gave you.
It was not a title.
Not inheritance.
Not applause.
May you like
Not being chosen over somebody else.
Sometimes belonging meant choosing yourself long enough for everyone around you to learn how to treat you.
