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After I meet Earl's family, I see Carson carrying two wrapped gifts across the room. He sets them in the hands of a woman by the fireplace and a man in a wheelchair by the door.

When he comes back over to Hildie, she looks up at him. "Thank you so much for coming, sir."

He doesn't flinch. He crouches beside her and asks if she's warm enough. She knew him sixty seconds ago, and now he's a stranger again. I have to look away before I get emotional about it.

Manny passes with a coffeepot, asking who needs a refill. Everyone seems happy, which is a relief. I don't know why I originally thought coming here on Christmas morning would be sad. Most everyone here has someone, and for the few who don't, some family pulls them into theirs. No one sits alone.

Around ten, Mom finds me near the coffee table.

"I'm going to be longer than I thought. Darline's daughter still isn't here, and Hildie wants me to stay for the singing.”

Darline is another woman my mom has grown fond of. She only has one daughter and no other family, so Mom is especially worried about her being alone today.

"No problem at all."

"You don't have to wait on me. Take the car if you want. I can get a ride back with Nancy."

That solves a problem I haven’t figured out how to solve without explaining why I need the car.

"Are you sure? I need to run by the drugstore."

"Of course. I might be another hour."

I dig the keys out of her bag. "Then I'm going to run out and grab some shampoo and face lotion, but I'll come back to get you."

"Take your time."

The Walgreens parking lot is packed because apparently half of Sarasota needs something on Christmas morning. I hope whoever drew the short straw and had to open this place doesn't have little kids waiting at home.

I sit in the car for another ten seconds before I make myself get out.

Inside, I find the family-planning aisle and stand in front of the emergency contraception longer than necessary, reading boxes that all say essentially the same thing. I settle on the one that looks the most legit. It reads “The Morning After” in soft cursive with an illustrated version of a sunset, or maybe it’s a sunrise, under it.

Then I look three shelves down to see the condoms. I stare at them, biting my bottom lip between my teeth. I look around to see if anyone is watching me. This is either excellent planning or a concerning amount of optimism.

I snag a box, completely ignorant about how to pick a condom. I can't believe I'm twenty-four and have never bought a box of condoms before.

Oil of Olay is on the next aisle, so technically I am not lying to my mother. I throw a bottle into my basket and head to the register. The cashier scans the Plan B, then the condoms, then looks at me.

I look right back, undeterred. Between the Plan B, condoms, and moisturizer, I've covered every possible Christmas emergency.

"Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," she says.

I pay and grab my bag before either of us has to discuss what kind of holiday I'm having.

Mom makes it through maybe twenty minutes of Miracle on 34th Street before her head tips against the back of the sofa.

The movie plays softly while I pull the throw higher over her legs. My phone lights up on the cushion beside me with a new text.

It's an area code I don't recognize, so I click through to open it. I realize immediately it's Carson.

Hildie's already in bed. We brought home enough cookies to get us through June. You want to come help with the problem?

I smile before I can stop myself and then type back.

How did you know I was just jonesing for a cookie? I thought Mom had outlawed cookies in this condo, but now I'm blaming you for taking them all.