HarperTrueLife
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
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First published by HarperTrueLife 2014
FIRST EDITION
Text © Joanne Smith 2014
Cover photo © Ttatty/Shutterstock, pkline/iStock,
Tsekhmister/iStock, claudio.arnese/iStock
Cover layout © Nupoor Gordon and HarperCollinsPublishers
A catalog record of this book is available from the British Library
Joanne Smith asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 9780008118112
Ebook Edition © December 2014 ISBN: 9780008118143
Version: 2014-11-24
Contents
Chapter 7: The Seventh Day of Christmas
Chapter 8: The Eighth Day of Christmas
Chapter 9: The Ninth Day of Christmas
Chapter 10: The Tenth Day of Christmas
Chapter 11: The Eleventh Day of Christmas
Chapter 12: The Twelfth Day of Christmas
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The clock on the mantel chimes twice: two a.m. I stand at the window watching the darkened street, praying every time I see headlights creeping toward the house that they will be Ben’s. I have been worried ever since I saw the red car speeding through the intersection on the way home from Tom’s house.
There have been too many nights like this, with me waiting at the window, enforcing no consequences when Ben comes home way later than his midnight curfew. I’m so afraid of driving him further away from me that I stay mute, not giving my son what I know he needs—parenting and love.
Shame on me.
Since Rick’s death, I have been emotionally absent from our children, blind to Nick’s nightmares, unable to fill Megan’s need for Christmas. Ben is drifting, walking alone with his grief.
If someone had asked me how we were getting along a week ago, I would have said fine, under the circumstances. I work. Pay bills. The kids attend school. Most days, someone remembers to feed the dog and cat.
But we weren’t fine, and our true friends knew it.
Now I do, too.
I have been sleepwalking for more than two months, hardly conscious of a family falling apart. It wasn’t until I nearly stumbled over that poinsettia that I began to see how much my kids needed me.
My eyes are open now.
Thanks to our true friends, Momma Bear is back. My gusto for Christmas may not be the same as in years past, but my kids will know they are not on their own. We’ll order a pizza. I’ll buy a few presents, and we will decorate our tree, provided it thaws out.
I flip the porch light on and off to make sure it is working, then patrol the house, careful not to wake Megan and Nick, who went to bed hours ago. When I reach my own closed bedroom door, I hesitate. I haven’t been in there for weeks. My clothes hang on a rack in the laundry room. I sleep on the couch. I shower in the guest bathroom. Though I tell myself there is nothing to be afraid of, the room frightens me. I have not dusted in there or vacuumed since before October 8.
Placing my hand on the doorknob, I find myself wishing one of those true friends were here beside me now. The thought surprises me, and I don’t feel so alone. I was angry when we received that first gift, now I am curious about who they are and grateful for their attention.
This room is another demon they will help me conquer.
The hinges of the door squeak as I push it open. I peek inside from the safety of the hallway, where the chill of the room is already starting to creep.
I force myself to see what my children see every time I send one of them in here to fetch a blouse from the closet, or a necklace from my jewelry box. I always have an excuse not to go myself; tonight, as I wait for my son to come home, there are no more