She went quiet.
“And financial support,” I continued, “is not a lifetime contract.”
“You knew what the house meant to us.”
“Yes.”
“Then how can you put it at risk?”
I almost asked how she could exclude the woman financing it from Christmas.
But the sentence felt too theatrical.
So I asked something simpler.
“Jennifer, why can’t you afford the mortgage now?”
Silence.
“I’m serious.”
“That’s between Michael and me.”
“Then the solution is between Michael and you too.”
She hung up.
I sat there for a long time afterward.
Then I called Linda.
Not Michael.
Not the bank.
Linda.
“Are you free Christmas Day?”
She laughed.
“I have been trying to get you to come here for twelve years.”
“I know.”
“So?”
“So maybe I was difficult.”
“Maybe?”
“Don’t ruin it.”
Linda laughed again.
“Come at noon.”
—
Christmas morning, I woke before six.
Nurses do that.
Even retired-from-night-shift nurses.
My first thought was Michael.
My second was Owen and Lily.
The children had done nothing.
That mattered.
I had gifts for them under the tree.
For twenty minutes I debated whether delivering them would be weakness.
Then I became annoyed with myself.
