14 DAYS TO CHRISTMAS (STILL)
Ronan
The lines are blurring.
And I don’t know what the hell to do about it anymore.
Home. She called this house home. Twice. And both times, something in me shifted. It wasn’t a light shift, no slow, gentle movement. It was seismic. Tectonic plates tearing up the land, creating craters and building mountains. It was earth-shattering, world-changing.
Amazing what one small woman can do with just one little word.
It wasn’t just one word, though. It was everything that led up to it. All the ways she shows she cares. It was the dinners and the ornaments, the laughter and the Christmas lights. It was the late-night talks and the silent support. And especially, it was the way she handed me my ass and fought for Belle, even when she hated every second of it.
I’ve known a lot of people who talk a good game. They spin bullshit into fairy tales as elaborate as they are empty.
But not Poppy. Her care is concrete, a foundation built on actions. All those details that stack up together to create something strong and secure.
Our house is full of laughter and warmth now, just like the empty parts of my soul that I hadn’t even realized needed to be filled.
When I saw her a few nights ago, up so late because she gave too much to everyone around her. She didn’t even have time to sleep. I wanted to give something back. I wanted her to know that she deserved to receive sometimes.
It’s not much, and I wonder, as we walk into the house, if maybe I haven’t gotten it wrong. Uncharacteristic nerves hit. I don’t usually care what others think. I learned long ago that people-pleasing was a losing bargain. My mom cared. When she was in her good phases, she cared too much, always trying to pretend that the two of us were a nice, normal family, when under the surface, she struggled with any sense of normalcy. It meant I spent my years as a child and teen pretending. Maybe it’s why I’m a good actor.
So when I grew up, I went the opposite way. I do what feels right, to hell with what anyone else thinks.
Except, I care when it comes to Belle.
And now, heaven help me, I care when it comes to Poppy.
Which is why I’m worried I overstepped, and I’m tempted to forget this whole thing. Except Belle was also part of the project, and she can’t hold back the surprise.
“What’s going on? Why are you smiling like that, Belle?” Poppy asks, dropping her bag by the stairs.
“We have a surprise for you!” Belle grabs Poppy’s hand and runs, making her follow behind with a laugh.
“In your dad’s gym?” Poppy asks.
“Ta-da!” Belle exclaims as she swings open the door. “It’s not Daddy’s gym any longer.”
“Oh!” Poppy gasps as she enters the room.
I hang back, nervous. Praying I didn’t fuck this up or make everything weird. Praying it’s a good surprise.
She swings around to look at me, then swings back to the room.
“Do you like it?” Belle asks.
At first, she doesn’t answer, and the knife of uncertainty twists harder in my gut.
“I love it,” she exclaims, and I can breathe now in relief. She leans down to give Belle a big hug. And while they’re hugging, her gaze meets mine.
“How?” she asks.
“It was Daddy’s idea. He said you should have an art studio. He had lots of help. I helped pick things out too.”
Poppy walks around the room, touching the canvases, the easels, the paints, and the art table.
I clear my throat against the ball of something that clogs it. “I thought you might like this room. You said before it has great light.”
