Chapter 2 - The Christmas They Made for Themselves
Snow had begun to fall by the time Owen secured Lily into the back seat.
The flakes were small and dry, gathering along the windshield before disappearing beneath the wipers.
He sat behind the wheel but did not start the car.
For several seconds, he simply breathed.
His hands were shaking.
From the back seat, Lily asked, “Are you mad at me?”
Owen closed his eyes.
The question hurt more than anything his family had said.
He turned around.
“No, sweetheart.”
“Are you mad because I didn’t finish?”
“I’m mad because you thought you had to.”
She looked down at her lap.
“Grandma said good girls help.”
“Helping is kind.”
“Then why are you upset?”
“Because helping is something you choose.”
He paused.
“It isn’t something people use to keep you away from everyone else.”
Lily considered that.
Her face was serious in the way children’s faces became serious when they were trying to understand rules adults had failed to explain.
“Did Grandma not want me there?”
Owen wished he could lie.
He wished he could protect her with something softer than the truth.
But children always knew when adults gave them answers designed for comfort instead of honesty.
“I think Grandma treated you differently.”
“Because I’m adopted?”
Owen felt his throat tighten.
“Maybe.”
Lily turned toward the window.
A long silence followed.
Then she said, “I tried to be extra good.”
Owen gripped the steering wheel.
“I know.”
“I thought if I helped more, they might ask me to be in the picture.”
He faced forward because he could no longer trust his expression.
“I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do it.”
“No.”
He forced himself to turn back toward her.
“But I saw pieces of it before tonight, and I kept pretending there was another explanation.”
Her eyes met his.
“That was my mistake.”
Lily was quiet.
Then she reached between the seats and placed one small hand on his shoulder.
“You found me in the kitchen.”
The innocence of it nearly broke him.
As though being found after exclusion was enough.
As though rescue could erase the fact that she had been left there in the first place.
Owen covered her hand with his.
“I’m always going to find you.”
This time, he intended to make certain it was true.
Most stores had closed early, but a twenty-four-hour grocery near downtown still had lights glowing through its front windows.
Owen and Lily walked through the nearly empty aisles in their Christmas clothes.
He pushed the cart.
She sat inside it, still in her blue velvet dress beneath her coat.
They bought frozen pizza, marshmallows, strawberries, whipped cream, and a small chocolate cake with uneven red icing.
In the seasonal aisle, Lily found a box of silver ornaments marked down to half price.
“Can we make our own tree?”
“We already have a tree.”
“Our own Christmas tree.”
Owen understood.
“Yes.”
They added the ornaments.
Then a string of battery-operated lights.
Then a paper star that looked slightly crushed inside its plastic package.
At home, they removed the ficus plant from the corner of the living room and wrapped the lights around it.
Lily hung every ornament herself.
The branches bent awkwardly beneath the weight, and the paper star refused to stay upright.
It was not elegant.
It would never appear in a holiday catalog.
It was the most beautiful Christmas tree Owen had ever seen.
They ate pizza on the floor.
Lily opened her gifts.
When she saw the telescope, she gasped so loudly Owen laughed for the first time that evening.
She hugged the watercolor pencils to her chest.
Then he fastened the silver star necklace around her neck.
“Why a star?” she asked.
“Because stars don’t ask permission to belong in the sky.”
She touched the charm.
“Did you make that up?”
“Yes.”
“It was a little cheesy.”
“I know.”
“I like it.”
Near midnight, they carried the telescope to the balcony.
The clouds had begun to clear.
Owen helped Lily find the moon.
She pressed one eye to the lens and became completely still.
“What do you see?”
“Cracks.”
“Craters.”
“They look like cracks.”
“Then cracks.”
She moved aside.
“Your turn.”
Owen looked.
The moon hung pale and enormous, imperfect and scarred, but still illuminating everything beneath it.
Behind him, Lily said, “Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“Can we take a picture?”
He turned.
She stood near their crooked tree, blue dress wrinkled, curls half fallen, star necklace shining beneath her throat.
“Of course.”
“No.”
She held out her hand.
“With both of us.”
He propped the phone against a stack of books and set the timer.
Then he sat beside her.
Lily leaned against him.
The camera flashed.
In the photograph, neither of them looked prepared.
Owen’s eyes were still red.
Lily’s hair was messy.
The paper star behind them had fallen sideways.
But they were together.
No one had been sent away.
No one had been told to wait.
No one had to earn a place in the frame.
Owen looked at the photograph afterward.
Then he set it as the background on his phone.
“This one?” Lily asked.
“This one.”
“Even though the tree looks funny?”
“Especially because the tree looks funny.”
She smiled.
Then she curled against him and fell asleep before the movie ended.
At 12:43 a.m., Owen’s phone began to vibrate.
His mother.
His father.
Lauren.
Messages appeared one after another.
You embarrassed everyone.
The girls are crying.
Mom didn’t mean anything by it.
You always overreact when it comes to Lily.
You owe the family an apology.
Owen read each one.
Then he looked down at the child sleeping against his chest.
For the first time in his life, he did not answer immediately.
He did not explain.
May you like
He did not smooth things over.
He simply turned the phone off.
