Adjusting to the house in Darien? The staff, the alimony he was never supposed to pay, that outlived his second wife?Mom.
“The holidays are hard for her,” Bianca adds.
Dad frowns. “Hard?”
“She worries,” Elena says quickly, then whispers, “About money.”
I tighten my grip on my mug.
He leans forward. “I don’t want her struggling.”
She has never struggled. Child support didn’t stop until they’d both been in college earning their bullshit bachelor’s, switching majors repeatedly for ten years. Degrees paid for. Apartments covered. I’m still convinced Bianca’s final semester tuition was wired directly to the registrar just to pass her.
“We thought,” Elena says softly, “maybe just a little extra this year?”
“Nothing dramatic,” Bianca adds. “Just to help her through Christmas.”
I want to stab them with my fork.
“Of course,” my father says. “I don’t want her worrying during the holidays.”
“Santa always comes through,” Bianca says brightly.
He laughs with them, grateful that he can still fix something, I imagine.
Dessert is finished. Coats appear, telling me they aren’t even staying here tonight. A double-edged sword. I feel bad for Dad, but then again, will he even remember them in the morning?
My father hugs them, tells them he’s proud, that he’s happy they came. He says it like he’s memorizing their faces.
When it’s just us, he squeezes my hand. “You did well tonight.”
“I know,” I say.
He smiles, satisfied, and lets me guide him toward the door.
“It’s A Wonderful Life?” he asks.
My eyes heat, but I hold back the tears, “Yeah, I’d like that.”
Good day.
Once Dad is settled for the night, I walk out from his wing and pull the door shut quietly behind me.
The home has that hollowed-out quiet it only gets after a performance. Dishes cleared. Lights dimmed. Everyone gone except the people who are paid handsomely enough to pretend they don’t know a thing is wrong.
Matteo is standing in front of the fireplace, jacket already on, hands in his pockets like he’s been waiting.
“You heading out?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah. Thought I’d go down toHarbor House.”
He nods because he already knows.
Harbor House is a domestic violence shelter. It’s not flashy. It doesn’t take gala money. It’s brick and worn and stubbornly still there even without all that, which is half the miracle.
My mother worked there when she was young as a social worker. She met my father there during one of his first PR-facing donations, back after Dad got divorced and had decided to jump in with both feet to expand Fairfax PR to Fairfax Media. He needed credibility as badly as capital.
He gave a speech. She corrected him afterward.
