It’s a beautiful silk blouse, rich and dark, paired with tailored black slacks. It looks lovely on her, but my mind stutters for a fraction of a second.The Christmas card was red. They were all in red.
Then, another woman appears beside her.
She is younger, softer, with honey-blonde hair cascading in meticulous waves. She holds a silver tray of hors d’oeuvres like she’s posing for a painting. And she, too, is wearing emerald green. A sweater this time, in the exact shade of Mary’s blouse.
They stand together on the landing, a coordinated set.
I glance down at my red dress, then back at them. A small seed of confusion plants itself in my chest.Maybe I remembered the card wrong? Or maybe they just changed their minds?
I push the thought away. It’s just a color. It’s festive. It’s fine.
“Cillian, darling,” Mary calls, her voice musical as she descends the stairs.
She doesn’t look at me yet, but I tell myself that’s normal. After all, she hasn’t seen her son in a while. I stand politely by Cillian’s side, hands clasped, waiting for the family reunion moment.
Mary reaches the bottom of the stairs and glides toward us. The blonde woman follows a half-step behind, looking at the floor.
Mary embraces Cillian, pressing her lips against his cheek. “You made good time despite the weather.”
“We managed fine,” Cillian says.
I step forward slightly, smile in place, ready to be introduced. I prepare to extend my hand, maybe even offer the hug I’d planned.
But Mary doesn’t turn to me. She keeps her hands on Cillian’s arms, her body angled slightly so her shoulder forms a wall between us.
“The drive from the city can be treacherous,” she continues, smoothing Cillian’s coat. “I told Arthur we should have sent a driver.”
I lower my hand, feeling a prick of heat on my neck.She just hasn’t noticed me yet,I tell myself.She’s focused on Cillian.
“Never mind that,” he says. “What is Bea doing here?”
His ex-wife? A sad, sort of strangling noise escapes my throat.
“What a happy accident we’ve had,” Mary says, finally stepping back but turning toward the blonde woman, not me. “Her apartment suffered an unfortunate boiler breakdown just yesterday. Flooding everywhere, isn’t that right, dear?”
She nods, looking up with a shy, apologetic smile. “The entire building, actually. They’re saying it might be weeks.”
“I couldn’t bear the thought of her spending Christmas in a hotel,” Mary says, her voice dripping with maternal warmth. “Sonaturally, I insisted she stay with us. Arthur and I have more than enough room.”
I watch them, trying to follow the dynamic. It’s kind of her, I suppose, to take in a stranded friend. But as I look at his former wife in her emerald sweater, standing next to his mother in her emerald blouse, the visual is striking. They look like mother and daughter.
And I, in my “deliberate” crimson red, look like a flare went off in a forest.
Cillian’s jaw tightens. I feel him stiffen beside me. “What a coincidence,” he says, his voice flat.
“Isn’t it just?” Mary smiles.
The silence stretches. Mary is still looking at Cillian. Bea is looking at her shoes. And I am standing there, my smile starting to feel brittle at the corners, waiting to be acknowledged.
My optimism wavers. This is awkward.
“Mother,” Cillian says finally, his voice sharp enough to cut through the air. He slides his arm around my waist, pulling me physically into the circle. “This is Star. My girlfriend.”
He emphasizes the wordgirlfriend, leaving no room for ambiguity.
I draw a breath, forcing my spine straight. I will not be the one to make this weird.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Brown,” I say, projecting warmth I’m rapidly losing. “Thank you so much for inviting me. I’m Star.”
