“Stop the act, Sandra. What do you want?”
“I wanted to hear your voice. Is that so terrible?” she asks, all lightness and sugar. It’s the same tone she used the year I unwrapped a train set in front of a crowd of strangers as she insisted the gift needed an audience. “It’s nearly Christmas, and your father and I would love to come see you. We could bring gifts, maybe some holiday decorations for your room. How does that sound?”
“Awful,” I tell her honestly.
“Don’t be such a killjoy. You know how much I love the holidays,” she whines.
“You mean how much you love to stage the holidays, comparing them to a full-scale theatre production? Then yes, I know.”
“But you enjoyed all the parties!”
“We must have different memories of those events. You’re still on my no-visit list, so coming here would be a waste of time.”
“I thought it was more of a heat-of-the-moment decision. Things were so tense that day. You have to understand that.”
“Did you forget that I woke up blind while you were arguing about whether a nurse was qualified to be in the room instead of supporting me? Because I didn’t.”
Her inhale is sharp, but she smooths it over with a laugh. “Sweetheart, everyone lets things they don’t mean slip in stressful situations. I’m sure we can all be adults about it. We haven’t spent time together in years. Wouldn’t it be nice to start again? One of the maids found the most beautiful little tree?—”
“Stop.” I shift against the pillows until my back hits the raised headrest. “This isn’t about a freaking Christmas tree or theholidays. It’s about you wanting a photo of yourself being the devoted mother at your son’s hospital bedside.”
“That’s not fair. As your mother?—”
“We both know it’s the truth.”
“Every parent makes mistakes. But we love you, and we can’t bear the thought of you alone at the hospital. Especially since yourdearUncle Jake, is off gallivanting in Europe.” She loads the word dear with enough weight to make her feelings about her brother unmistakable. “Let us come to visit.”
“I’m not alone. I have people here who actually make things easier, not harder.”
“We can make things easier,” she offers quickly. “Your father has been in touch with one of the top specialists for your eyes. He’s treated professional athletes and has his private clinic near Boston?—”
“I already have some of the best doctors treating me,” I cut in.
Her voice tightens. “You’d turn down help from your own parents? I tried to understand it when you refused to take the money after your eighteenth birthday, but your recent behaviour is getting out of hand. Why would you deny yourself the best care out there?”
“Help with strings attached isn’t real help.”
She makes a sound that used to send me scrambling to fix whatever I’d done wrong. I used to think that sigh meant disappointment, but now I recognize it for what it is: control.
“One day you’ll regret your actions, Teddy.”
I scoff. “Shutting you out of my life is one of the few decisions I’ve never regretted. So I’d have to disagree with you.”
“We’ll respect your wishes, but I do hope you’ll reconsider before it’s too late,” she says, sounding defeated yet icy at the same time.
“Merry fucking Christmas,Mother.”
I hang up in frustration and toss the phone to the side table.
The holidays during my childhood meant ski trips in Tahoe, catered brunches, white tablecloths, mahogany staircases wrapped in garlands, and champagne that tasted like overcompensating. The pine smell came from the candles, not the fake trees arranged in every corner of the house. Even if I begged, my mother never let me help decorate. She said it would ruin the aesthetic. My mother would spend weeks arguing with the caterers about gluten-free options she wouldn’t eat, then complain regardless. My father turned every conversation into a competition—portfolio values, vacation homes, and how many decimals his investments had climbed overnight were typical topics.
Suffocating doesn’t quite cover how those moments were with my parents. I would’ve rather stayed at the boarding school over the breaks, but Christmas was the only time we were forced to leave the premises. It was a punishment disguised as a privilege.
I picture myself at seven years old, standing in a forest green tuxedo jacket, clutching a wrapped box I wasn’t allowed to open until the important guests arrived. Later that night, I sat on the floor of my room eating leftover cookies from the catering platters, after my father had taken away the gifts to punish me for something I didn’t do.
At eleven years old, I was forced to learn to balance a tray of champagne flutes because it was important to be a good host. When one of the trays tipped and the glasses shattered in amillion pieces, I was sent to my room without food for the rest of the evening. My father told everyone I had fallen sick.
The year I turned fourteen, we were invited to a Christmas ball Em’s family hosted at one of their hotels. I was excited until my parents left me in the room alone with instructions to stay quiet and not make a fuss. I fell asleep to the muffled hum of the party several floors below.
