But they do.
Mia does.
I think about the jewelry I have for her. Diamond teardrop earrings. I spent all of ten minutes getting them online. Shame courses through me. Mia makes such an effort for everyone, and none of us, me included, make much of an effort for her.
Well, that changes.
“Anyway.” Mia waves a hand. “Can’t change that now, can we. Aiden, I want you to open mine first.”
She walks over to the tree and comes back with a rather opulent-looking envelope—gold foil, red ribbon, thick and glossy as if it holds something important.
My heart sinks.
I recognize it.
I bought that envelope two years ago at an overpriced Christmas store downtown. I’d waited too long to order her gift—work had gotten crazy, markets were volatile, and I told myself I’d make it up to her. So, I scribbled a note, slid it inside, and wrote “Paris Trip.”
I meant it. But we never went.
You went to Paris with Diana, and you were there with her on your wedding anniversary, Aiden.
I take the envelope from her.
I glance around. Everyone’s watching. It’s tradition. Each person opens their gift, and we talk about it.
I pull the ribbon loose and the envelope falls open.
The world stops moving.
Divorce papers.
Neatly folded. Initialed. With dates. Legal language that cleaves into my chest like a blade.
“What the hell is this?” I can barely get the words out.
She smiles, stands up, calm and composed, like she didn’t just set a live grenade in the middle of the Winter Christmas.
My hand trembles as I flip through the pages.
Photos.
Fuck.
Ten of them. All of the same moment. Different filters.
The photos are of Diana and me. Kissing.
It’s a kaleidoscope of betrayal.
I look at Mia. “Baby, it didn’t mean a thing, you?—”
“Oh, come on, Aiden, don’t be more of a cliché than you already are.” Her tone is sardonic, almost bored, like she was expecting this from me.
I can’t believe she did this, like this. Mia isn’t vindictive but….
“What did she give you?” Dad demands.
“Yes, son,” Mom urges.
