But how do you explain that to a five-year-old?
How do you make a child understand that sometimes love gets messy, and protection doesn’t always look kind?
He wouldn’t understand why I’m angry, or scared, or why hearing Jared’s voice still makes my stomach knot until I’m nauseous.
He wouldn’t understand that the men he looks up to, the ones who did everything they could to make him laugh, might not come back .
Not because they stopped caring, but because I pushed them away to keep us safe.
If I let Eli keep hoping, if I let him wait by the door or ask to call them again, it’ll destroy me.
I can’t carry that kind of guilt.
I can’t handle watching my child’s faith crumble when he realizes the people he loves aren’t coming back.
So I keep lying. Not out of malice, but out of mercy for him.
And maybe, if I’m being honest, for me too.
Dad never mentions the lie, never corrects me.
He just stays quiet and spends his free time with his friends away from our home, but the disappointment in his gaze still lingers on my back.
Yet I know he wouldn’t be feeling this way if he knew the truth.
And that’s what gives me the motivation to keep going.
To get some sense of normalcy back into my life, I close up my shop early on Thursday and take Eli to the grocery store with me.
The bell above the door jingles as I lock it behind us, and for once, the sound doesn’t feel festive, it just feels depressing.
The little sign flipped toClosedin the window feels like an admission of defeat, but I need a break.
A night away from the endless hum of customers coming in to buy their loved ones gifts, the smell of my pine and cinnamon candles, and the pitying looks of those who ask if I’ll be spending Christmas “with family” after picking up on my horrible mood.
Dad’s birthday is tomorrow, and since it falls three weeks before Christmas, every store in town has been pure chaos.
The grocery store is no exception.
Even the parking lot feels like a battleground with honking horns, carts rolling free, and people bundled up shoving past each other like the world might run out of sugar and butter if they don’t hurry.
So I figure getting my shopping done a day early and prepping tonight can’t hurt.
It’s an excuse, really.
Something to keep my hands busy, my mind distracted.
Anything’s better than standing behind the counter pretending to care about wreaths and wrapping paper when all I can think about is the sound of that phone call replaying over and over in my head.
Eli’s restless the moment I put him in the cart.
He kicks his little sneakers against the metal bar behind his heel, humming some half-remembered Christmas tune.
Normally I’d smile at that, maybe join in just to make him laugh, but tonight I just feel bone-deep tired.
“Mama,” he says, drawing out the word like he’s testing how far my patience will stretch. “Can we get the marshmallow pops that we saw last time? The rainbow-colored ones?”
I sigh, pushing the cart toward the back of the store. “We’ll see, buddy. Let’s get Grampy’s cake stuff first.”
