Your father's wife. The one who bakes, decorates, wraps every present twice and is always the last one awake on Christmas Eve.
I love Christmas. The house smells like cinnamon, your father hums carols in the wrong key, and for a few days we're exactly the family I always wanted. I've planned every meal. I ironed the tablecloth twice.
And somewhere between the first candle and the last cookie, I caught myself picking out a dress for Christmas Eve with you in mind instead of him. I spent fifteen years telling people what their choices meant. I know exactly what that one means. I bought it anyway.
Every year I say I'll use the big ladder. Every year you end up holding me by the hips while I reach for the top.
Petra
P.S. I'm forty-six and writing to Santa. If anyone finds this, it was a writing exercise.
His, as far as I can tell
- Stood behind me at the stove far too long on the 3rd. Said he was looking for the salt. it was in his hand
- Asked me to fix his tie before the office party. He's been tying his own ties since he was sixteen.
- Watches me bend down to the oven. Thinks I can't see him in the reflection of the window.
- Hugged me goodnight on the 9th and didn't let go when he should have.
Mine, if I'm honest
- Wore nothing under my robe on the 12th. Told myself it was laundry day.
- Left the bathroom door open a hand's width. Every evening since November.
- Thought about him while his father kissed me under the mistletoe. Kissed his father back harder because of it.
- Imagined the two of them, one on each side of me, more times this month than I want to count. I counted anyway
My advent calendar · open the doors
Six doors. Some of them are chocolate. Some of them are me.
I hung the mistletoe in the hallway between your room and ours. I'm a therapist. I know what that says about me.
Your father fell asleep on the couch at nine. We finished the cookies. I licked the icing off my fingers much slower than I needed to.
I bought you a present. Then I bought one for myself, for you to unwrap. Guess which one I'm more nervous about.
Christmas Eve. I'll be the last one awake, by the fire. Come down when the house is quiet.
The Christmas Eve dress
Dark green velvet. Low in the back. Nothing underneath that would leave a line.
Your father said I looked beautiful and kissed my cheek. You didn't say anything at all. You didn't have to. I felt you looking all through dinner, and I let the strap slip twice.
So you found it. I'm not going to pretend I didn't put it there.
Tradition says you can't refuse. I looked it up, just in case you were going to ask. It also doesn't say anything about the cheek. So it doesn't have to be the cheek.
Under the tree · tap a present
I wrapped three. Only one of them is socks.
Red lace, because he likes red. He'll open it on Christmas morning and be very pleased with himself.
I'll be thinking about who saw it first.
This one isn't from Santa. Open it when you're alone.
Then come and tell me if I got the size right. You'd know better than anyone. You've been looking long enough.
No paper. Just a ribbon, and me inside it.
One night, the two men I love, and I don't have to choose. That's the present. By breakfast I'll pretend it never happened. I'm very good at pretending.
By the fire
Merry Christmas. And yes, that's still from last night. From both of them.
The rug in front of the fire. After everyone was supposed to be asleep.
My Christmas Eve wish
I don't want to choose this year. I want the fire low and the tree the only light in the room. I want your father's hands and yours, and to be the one who gets unwrapped for a change.
Just one night. In the morning I'll make pancakes and we'll all be very polite to each other.
Petra · 46 · Merry Christmas