So, mentally, I file that into the bucket of “no, for real girl, get a therapist” and stare down the other list.
The “Done by someone else” stuff is actually relatively harmless, if annoying. When I think about it, they do solidly fall into the “annoyingly overly neighborly” category, of which I know one man that absolutely meets that criteria.
FuckingTom.
How do I deal with this? Do I call the cops?
It sounds so pathetic in my mind. “Yes, hello? My neighbor is texting me to remind me to put up my lights and getting my decorations out of my garage. Yes, I know that just sounds nice, but it doesn’tfeelnice.”
They’ll just tell me to call back if anythingactuallybad happens, I’m sure. Especially since they have talked to me way too much already.
With a pout, I realize that I am going to have to talk to him. He can’t be doing things for me like this… especially not when I am sleeping.Definitelynot when I am sleeping. My stomach plummets. The fact that he was here while I was sleeping really doesn’t sit well with me.
Fuck, not only am I going to have to talk to him, but now I am going to have to talk to him about something that makes me really uncomfortable. Do I need to, though? Really? After all, he’s just trying to help… and I don’t like the nighttime thing… but what if it was the only time he could do it? I didn’t want him to, or ask him to, but hereallyis just trying to be nice… right?
As per usual, I think I might be overreacting about this, surely all of this is just a coincidence.
After dealing with my list, I make some coffee and sit down on the couch to get some work done. Henry raises his head and cracks an eye enough to confirm I’ve sat down. Seeing me must have given him enough motivation to shift his big body, because with a stretch, he meanders over to lie on my feet on the couch.
Mixed in with all of my work emails is one from my sister, Teagan, and I groan. I would bet all of my recent good luck that my mom has galvanized her against me. Or rather,forthe “Ada comes home for Christmas” cause.
Don’t get in the way of a religious woman with a cause to fight for. They’ll fight dirty with a smile on their face.
“Hey Sis!” it starts, and then there is anadorablepictureof my new nephew, looking like a grumpy old man as he sleeps curled up in our family bassinet. Yes, a family bassinet. It's just as saccharine as it sounds. Every Kimball since the pioneer days has slept in this cradle, with fathers through the generations repairing it. I don’t know what I would do if I ever have kids—I sincerely doubt they’d ship it from Utah.
Now there’sa depressing thought.
“As you can see, Parker is so upset you won’t be joining us for Christmas. If there’s anything either David or I can do to make it so you can come, please tell me. We’d love to see you, and Parker needs some auntie snugs!” Her email ends with a Christmas-themed sign-off, holiday cheer galore.
A rock settles in my stomach. Of course I want to snuggle this adorable little bean. I mean, justlookat that nose. It’s so damn kissable.
It’s classic Kimball guilt. I wish knowing about it made it stop being as effective. Maybe someone who actually went to therapy, instead of just thinking about it a lot, would be immune. Me though? No way.
It settles heavy on my soul, because if only I were stronger, if only I’dactuallygone to therapy by now, I could go home for the holidays and snuggle that adorable baby. Instead, I’ll be stuck here, trapped in my house, crying for hours I’m sure.
What was Sleepy Ada thinking? Changing my greetings to be holiday themed? The last thing I need is a reminder of everything that is happening without me. Further, fucking Tom putting my boxes out and guilting me into decorating didn’t help.
I needed to deal with him. I was strong enough to deal with him. All it would take was a quick text, a message saying he needed to leave it alone and it would be dealt with. That I could do.
First, though, I’ll put away the fucking boxes. It’s only a matter of time before a package arrives and I have to starethem down, so I might as well deal with them while I was already in a Scrooge-y mood.
Bah, Humbug!
Who needs Christmas? Not me! I’m not even religious anymore, so now it’s just about family, and if I’m not going to be with family, what's the point in being festive? It’ll only rub my face in what I can’t have, what I’mnotdoing.
Slapping my thighs, I stand up. A move I got from my dad, who slaps his legs and says “Well!” before doing anything, it feels like.
“Wish me luck, Henry. I’m going outside.”
Fuzzy ears perk up at the word, and he rouses himself, slow and steady. He might not be the most effective guard dog, but he’s a great companion, and a trip outside will always get him up. Because I live in the forest and he’s so lazy, I never worry about leashing him.
Going on a walk through my woods is one of the few things I can do to go outside these days, so after I finish up with the decorations, I think I should maybe take one. I try to get out at least once a day, though I don’t always make it. It doesn’t have to be long, and Henry would really like it. I smile once I decide. Maybe I need to ignore Christmas, but I can still enjoy the quiet stillness of winter.
No to Christmas, yes to winter.
Winter is for quiet and being alone. I can appreciate it, celebrate it even, without mourning what I am missing. I nod my head and step into my big snow boots. One puffer jacket and beanie later, I’m ready for some manual labor… even if I’m neverreallyready for manual labor.
Henry’s out the door first, for once in his life motivated. I pause as soon as I’m on the porch.
