The Week Before Christmas
They say that the loudest sound in the world isn’t an explosion or a scream. It’s the sound of a door closing when you’re standing on the wrong side of it.
The week before Christmas, my granddaughter Lily looked up from my sewing room window seat and said, very quietly, “Grandma, I heard Mom say you won’t be here for Christmas this year.”
I actually laughed. In my head it sounded like one of those sweet, scrambled things kids repeat without understanding. Kids overhear half a sentence, twist it into a story, and suddenly you’re the villain who stole Santa’s sleigh.
“Of course I’ll be here, sweetheart,” I told her. “This is my house. Where else would I go?”
Lily didn’t laugh. Her little face stayed serious in the thin winter light, her boots dangling above the old radiator that clanked every morning like it had opinions about the weather.
“That’s what I thought too,” she whispered. “But Mom said it to Daddy. She said, ‘One week until Christmas, and then Mom will be gone.’”
Those words landed on my skin like frost. I tried to smooth them away the way you smooth a wrinkle out of fabric, telling myself children misunderstand all the time.
“You must’ve misheard, honey.”
She shook her head hard. “I know what I heard.”
I told myself a dozen comforting lies, because mothers do that. My daughter Clare was stressed. Derek was out of work again. They’d moved back to the property two years ago and everyone was stretched thin. These explanations felt reasonable in the afternoon light while I curled ribbons on Christmas presents.
But that night, after the sun dropped behind the bare oaks and the December wind began worrying the shutters, I sat alone at my kitchen table. The same scarred wood where I’d rolled pie crust for forty-three years now held wrapped gifts and growing doubt.
My name is Lucille Johnson. This farmhouse had been in my family for forty-three years. Every floorboard knew my footsteps. Every window had reflected seasons of my life—pumpkin-orange sunsets, spring rain, the hard white glare of snow across the fields.
At seventy-two, I’d earned the right to call it mine in a way that went beyond the certified copy of the deed locked in a safe deposit box at the bank in town.
I’d lived what most people would call an ordinary American life. A faded flag on the porch in July. Mud on boots by the door. A church bulletin tucked into a kitchen drawer. Nothing remarkable except the quiet accumulation of days that add up to something solid.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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