1
Lila
I’m driving. Snow’s falling gently. Endless fields, blanketed in white. Stretches of snow-dusted pines here and there. It’s kind of dreamy.
Christmas is in two days, and it’s no big deal. I’m off work for a week—no campaigns, no client calls, no pretending my marketing job isn’t eating my soul. Instead, I’m heading to a cabin in the mountains, to pet sit and forget about the whole glittery, sparkly ordeal—right after I swing by Mom’s place for a pre-Christmas dinner.
By the time I pull off the highway, the snow stops being picturesque, and starts feeling personal. Big, wet flakes slam into the windshield like theyknow. Like they’re mad at me for returning to the one place I swore I’d never set foot in again.
Five more minutes of squinting through the windshield while throwing my rental car through a bunch of slippery turns, and my GPS chirps like a perky serial killer:
You’ve reached your destination.
And there it is: Mom’s dream McMansion—looming out of the white like a Disney villain bought a Swiss chalet. Complete with glued on “rustic” logs and a stone effect façade—oh, and twin turrets and arched windows because she always deserved to be a princess. And right now, it’s buried under enough Christmas lights to signal aircraft—every gutter dripping with icicle lights, every bush smothered in LEDs, the whole thing glittering like a Vegas snow globe.
A huge holly wreath hangs from the door. I picture Mom flinging the door open. Sweeping me into a hug. The scent of cinnamon and roast turkey wafting out.
A cozy family dinner.
Lots of laughter and fun, and interest in my life?—
But that’s weird…
The driveway’s empty.
The gates read my license plate and slide open. I drive around the ornamental fountain—currently wearing its own icicle crown—and pull up in front of the house. No other cars. No footprints in the snow. And the house looks dark inside.
My stomach drops.
Something’s wrong.
I get out of the car and walk to the front door, my breath fogging in the cold air. The pathway has obviously been cleared at some point, but it’s already turned icy and perilous again.
I ring the doorbell.
Nothing.
Lift the knocker and hammer three times. The sound echoes into the empty interior.
Then I peer through the window. The lights are all off, but a gigantic Christmas tree is all lit up, pulsating with blue and silver lights.
My throat spasms.
I should be used to this by now. I’m not.
I get back into the car and sit there, wanting to delay the moment of realization as long as possible.
“Maybe she’s just out for groceries,” I tell the steering wheel. “Or she’s gone to the church to light a candle in honor of leaving her only child emotionally undernourished for another year.”
Time passes. I retrieve my phone from the dash and tap out a message:
Me:Where are you, Mom?
The reply comes fast. Suspiciously fast:
Mom:I’m sorry, hon. You just missed us.
Me:What do you mean?
