After Mom’s death, that’s all my family ever did. Let tragedy eat away at everything good left behind. Us. We were the ones left behind, and the holidays were not the only thing we lost when we lost mom. We fractured as a family. Three siblings drifted apart, with no central pull back home. Or maybe the hurt kept us away. Coming home was—is—too painful.
But I’ve walked through it now.
That phase of my life ends now.
Sandy stands in my space, studying me. “You good?”
“Yeah, I think so, for the first time in a long time. Thank you.”
She tilts her head, emotion twisting her face. “Merry Christmas, Celeste.”
“Merry Christmas, Sandy.”
She waves me off, and I walk back outside to the truck with a renewed spark. It only took losing the one last anchor I had to this life to realize I wasn’t really living.
And for a moment, I’m envious of Dad. He’s no longer tethered to the sorrow that consumed us for decades. He found a way out.
A way free.
I’ll be damned if I don’t do the same.
Chapter
Twenty-Six
QUINTON
The letter in my hand crinkles beneath my fist. I’ve read it three times, and the words on the page refuse to change.
A letter of custody settlement.
My worst fear coming to a head. Maisey being taken away from me.
But the letter in my hand reads loud and clear—Stella Joan Ramsey hereby applies for full custody of Maisey Emmaline MacKelvie (age 5).
Fucking hell.
Only two days before Christmas. She has to be fucking kidding me, right?
That’s a low blow, even for her. I take note of the letterhead, a family legal firm from Boston.
So, she’s back. Just our damn luck.
Over my rotting corpse is she waltzing back into our lives. She should have stayed away.
“Daddy, you’re going to get a wrinkle face like Mr. Black.” Maise spoons cereal into her mouth. The milk dribbles down her chin, but she catches it with a hand and leans over the bowl, chewing ferociously. “Wos wong?”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, kiddo. And nothing.”
“Why do you look all angry and stuff?”
She tilts her head. Perceptive little girl. I fold the letter and return it to its envelope. “I’m not angry, Maise. Just annoyed.”
“At that letter?” She points with her spoon, dripping milk over the table.
“Maybe. Forget it, hey. Go and get ready for the sleigh ride, might be a line.”
In this tiny town, probably not. But anything to get her moving. She throws another spoonful in her mouth before rushing from the table. Any other day I’d make her eat more, but my head has been thoroughly messed up by one piece of paper.
