Do you know that feeling when the ground seems to vanish beneath your feet? When the words you just heard take a few seconds to reach your brain because they’re so cruel, so absurd, you can’t quite believe they’re real? That was me that snowy Christmas Eve in Vermont.
I stood there in my own dining room in Winter Harbor Estate, still wearing the same red shawl I’d knitted twenty years ago, and the apron dusted with flour from baking gingerbread since dawn.
The smell of roasted ham hung in the air. Silver bells chimed faintly by the big bay window that overlooked the maple trees and the snow-covered driveway.
Thirty faces stared back at me. Neighbors from down on Maple Lane, friends from church, even our pastor from the white-steepled chapel on Main Street.
Each one pretending not to see what had just happened.
And my son, David—the boy I once stayed up with through every fever—stood there pointing at me as if I were a trespasser. “Don’t you get it, Mom? That seat’s already taken.”
Beside him, Vanessa smiled.
That thin, practiced smile I knew too well.
The smile of someone who knows she’s already winning a war you didn’t even realize you were fighting. I placed the serving spoon down, untied my apron, and said quietly,
“Everyone, please enjoy Christmas.”
Then I walked away into the cold sound of church bells echoing through the snow.
I closed the dining room door behind me, the muffled sounds of laughter and clinking glasses fading as I climbed the carpeted staircase. The air was colder up here, heavier with memories, as if the walls themselves held secrets.
Through the window at the end of the hall, the snow fell thick and soft, swirling in the dim light of the streetlamps from the county road beyond our long driveway.
I slipped into the old music room and sat down beside the piano, its keys long since silent, gathering dust. The room was unchanged. The faded floral wallpaper from the late ’80s, the shelves lined with old sheet music and framed recital photos from David’s childhood.
It was still full of echoes of the past, of music played and forgotten.
I rested my fingers on the keys for a moment. Their coldness sent a shiver through me.
Then I reached for the drawer built into the piano bench, my fingers brushing the familiar wood of the handle. I slid it open, revealing old letters and papers that had been tucked away for years—utility receipts, birthday cards, and envelopes with Edward’s handwriting.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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