Snow. Presents. Twinkling lights and decorated trees. Those were the things you were supposed to be thinking about the night before Christmas, not the memory of the lifeless body of your wife in front of you at the morgue.

Not the recollection of people gathering in a church on a somber, cloudy day while you struggled to say any words, let alone the ones you’d written for the eulogy.

And definitely not the fucking ridiculous scene of your girlfriend, or friend, or whoever she was, kissing her ex husband just when you wanted to ask her over for rum and eggnog with your brothers.

Everyone was here in Minnesota for the holidays, and I was pacing back and forth in the snowy backyard trying to figure out what to do. I was fuming. A failure of composure by any stretch of the imagination. But my daughter, my family, needed me. So I had to put on a happy face and go deal with everything.

Charlotte was special to me, but apparently I wasn’t special to her. It was clearly a mistake to have gotten close to someone again so soon after reuniting with Ava. I should have focused. Should have kept Charlotte at a distance so that I wouldn’t be in this situation.

Should have kept myself safe.

She was an adult woman, and her ex husband did seem suspect. I wanted to believe her about him having forced the kiss, but my deepest insecurities were steering me. When they had the wheel, I had no trust in anyone, including myself. And it would make sense to my dark mind if I were being screwed over.

Anything made more sense than that I had found someone I enjoyed, who was kind to me and to Ava, someone who maybe—just maybe—felt something towards me that resembled what I felt.

Because if that was what was going on, I had so many things to reckon with, the least of which was Charlotte’s lips pressed tightly against another man’s mouth.

Then why couldn’t I get that image out of my mind? Why couldn’t I squash it down like I was so accustomed to doing with any feelings whatsoever? Why couldn’t I just barge into the house with a fake smile on my face and get on with Christmas?

Because it wasn’t true. I was hurting, and I was done with pretending.

You gave her yourself and she wasn’t worth it, Jack.

My palms ached from the way my fingernails had been driving into my skin, leaving half-moon indentations that screamed an angry red at me. In the darkness, I could see the lights of my house, which I knew was full of Sargent cheer and humor. Ava had been over the moon to see Kyle, Winston, and family all arriving in the driveway earlier.

I owed it to her to push past my irrational spiralling.

I could figure out Charlotte later. For now, all that mattered was that my little girl had the best Christmas humanly possible. Our first Christmas back together as a family.

I would make it count.

So I breathed in carefully, counting my heartbeats until they’d slowed to a reasonable pace. And then I stepped back inside with a tepid expression. No smiles necessary. Don’t need to fake it. Let the feeling come back naturally.

“Charlotte’s busy,” I said to Ava, who looked up at me hopefully the moment I came through the door. She was hovering nearby, ready to welcome Charlotte when we arrived.

If I hadn’t already been crushed, my gut swirling with uncertainty and guilt, then Ava’s disappointment would have done it for me. As it stood, the expression on her face was painful enough without memories of happier times with Charlotte.

I was being a dick. To myself, to Charlotte. I knew it in my gut, if not my mind.

But I had to look out for myself, that was the thing no one would tell you about losing family. It made you feel all alone in the world, and if anything bad could happen to you, you had to be able to take it. No help would be on its way, no cavalry to charge in when you most needed backup.

It had been a mistake to think I was ready to get involved with someone new, a horrendously complicated tangle of emotions I had no idea how to work through. Wasn’t reconciling with my daughter hard enough? Why had I given in to my urges, my basest needs for touch, affection, sex?

You know it wasn’t just sex.

Whatever I knew, I couldn’t acknowledge it or I’d shatter. All I had left now was my ability to pretend like I was functioning, when in reality there was a storm battering me beneath the surface.

In the seconds that followed my announcement, I swam through my murky feelings and forced myself to emerge from them. So what if I didn’t feel ready? Christmas was here, family was here, and Ava was still my priority. Charlotte—and my muddle-headed feelings for her—would have to wait.

“I’m sorry honey,” I said to Ava. I leaned on the countertop next to her, cradling her under my arm and kissing the crown of her head. “Did Uncle Win and Uncle Kyle bring any presents from California?”

I had to distract Ava. The crestfallen expression was enough to make me throw myself in bed and sleep for two days to avoid my feelings.

“Yeah,” she said. “You can ask them about them.” Her tone was morose, her body listless in my grasp. She wasn’t going to forget about Charlotte’s promise to celebrate Christmas with us that quickly.

Damnit.

I opted to give her some space to process her thoughts. We walked into the front room, where Ava took the armchair and sank into its plush upholstery while she stared into the middle distance. Kyle, Adelaide, Grace, Winston, Kaycee, and Stevie were all in the living room, a group of people larger than I’d ever had in the house. It warmed the place up, both literally and figuratively. Gabe was happily curled up by Ava’s feet, but he clearly had tension woven into his muscles so he was ready to spring into action if protection was needed.

“The man of the house!” proclaimed Kyle, who was feeding Grace with a bottle while Adelaide drank a rum and eggnog.

“Hey!” echoed the rest of the bunch, their smiles exactly what I needed. I felt warm, embraced, and loved. This was what the holidays were all about. The raised glasses, happy eyes, smell of food and cheer… it was Christmas, and it felt right.

With one exception.

I wanted Charlotte here, even as I was upset with her for the encounter at her place. Duncan or no Duncan, I regretted my outburst. Except I couldn’t get past my anger. The damage had been done. My rage had destroyed yet another thing.

I poured myself a drink and settled into conversation with my brothers, marvelling at the love between them and within their relationships. Just as before, I felt out of place, the miserable man in a sea of happy couples.

Except this time, I wasn’t alone because of circumstances beyond my control. It was entirely my own doing. I wasn’t alone in a way where I grieved for a death, but for the loss of a relationship with someone who was still breathing, still sitting somewhere right next door.

Somehow, it was just as painful. Somehow, I castigated myself all the same. And somehow, I knew that I was doomed to repeat this tableau, Jack alone on holidays while the family swirled in blissful ignorance around me.

If that was my place in life, so be it.

* * *

In the morning, Win and I set out stockings for the kids and put some cinnamon buns in the oven to heat up. Ava had promised to stay in her room until 7:30, but I could tell she’d been awake for at least an hour. The muffled noises emanating from her room had the impatient tone of a girl in the throes of tenuous self-discipline.

Lucky for her, we finished Santa duty quickly enough and were able to let her loose on the house shortly afterwards. She bounced out of the doorway to her room with such glee that my heart felt twice as full as I’d expected.

“It’s here! It’s here!” she said, taking my hands and forcing me to twirl around in excitement. When Adelaide and Grace joined us in the living room, Ava went to Grace and kissed her cheek, causing a burbly giggle that delighted both Ava and Adelaide.

So far, Christmas was as idyllic as I’d wished it would be. If only I didn’t feel like there was something significant missing from it. If only Charlotte’s absence didn’t cause a throbbing in my chest that only she could fix.

While Win and Kyle distributed cinnamon buns, Ava sat on the floor pushing the gifts to the recipients who would need to open them. She was a natural at sorting and categorizing, so we were well organized when the time came to unwrap. Ava had already blown through her stocking, which was full of candy, chocolates, paper, and a few paintbrushes that I thought she could use.

Her grin was a beacon, guiding me through the otherwise turbulent waters of my morning. It felt wonderful, don’t get me wrong, but it wasn’t whole without Charlotte here. I could see that, thought that everyone could see me feeling it, too. Sarah would always be a presence in my life, but Charlotte had been the ‘new girl’ my brothers certainly gossiped about before flying to Minneapolis.

But she wasn’t here.

Kyle and Adelaide opened a tiny parcel for Grace that contained adorable baby clothes emblazoned with the logo of Adelaide’s new business. She was opening a restaurant in the New Year and was thrilled to be walking her own path. Even Grace seemed excited, chirping and waving her arms in the manic way only babies could.

Win and Kaycee were smiling conspiratorially about the gifts they’d brought for me and Ava, matching sweaters that were as endearing as they were embarrassing.

And Ava shoved a package even closer to me, whispering “Dad” as she did it.

“This is for you,” she said. “From me.”

I skipped ahead in my unwrapping, certain that Kyle could wait until I finished with my daughter’s gift before I opened his. We shared a smile as I picked up the parcel from Ava. I shook it, pretending to listen.

“If it’s a new puppy, Ava, I think it might be dead.”

“Daaaad,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s too small to be a puppy.”

She was right. It was a thin rectangle, about the size of a box of frozen pizza. When I suggested that as a possible option, Ava laughed.

“No! Just open it.”

“Ok, ok.”

My hands snagged the wrapping paper, brushing away the covering to reveal a canvas. As I finished unwrapping it, my breath caught in my throat. My pulse seemed to zoom ahead of my thoughts, racing like it never wanted me to feel whole again. The painting was beautiful.

It was Sarah.

A portrait. Done in the rich, muted colors of some old Dutch painter, but the face was unmistakably Sarah. It had the brightness of her eyes, the soft and full strawberry tone of her lips. Even the posture seemed perfect, the same way she held herself when she knew she’d done something correctly and was proud of herself.

My eyes welled with tears, unbidden. I was certain my throat had closed for good, never to breathe air or allow me to swallow again. Then suddenly, a gasp of air rushed into me.

“Do you like it?” asked Ava, her voice trembling a little as she saw my emotional reaction. I hugged her so tightly she squirmed, perhaps regretting her vulnerability.

“I love it,” I whispered. It was the perfect memorial to our Sarah, the best way to see her and have her in Ava’s life while acknowledging that she was gone.

It would help me remember.

“Charlotte helped me make it,” said Ava. “She said you’d like it.”

And there was another gut punch. This time, I couldn’t find breath. Dizzy. Stars in my eyes. My mouth was dry, moisture completely wicked from my tongue.

“Dad?” said Ava.

Charlotte had helped paint a portrait of my ex-wife?

I had been so lost these past few years, the possibility of this kind of moment seemed totally fictional. A moment where I was close to someone like Charlotte, where they cared for me and my daughter, where my daughter didn’t hate me. And then, to top it all off, Ava and Charlotte had worked together, for however many hours it took to create something beautiful, making this priceless thing.

This tribute to my first real love, my Sarah. Ava’s mother. Gone though she was, with a painting like this she could be on the walls, a constant image in the background of our day to day lives.

I hugged Ava again vaguely and excused myself, unable to make eye contact with anyone, to say anything other than a curt “Sorry.”

In my bedroom, I fell apart, collapsing onto the bed and letting the sadness overtake me. Whether I was mourning Sarah one more time or feeling the sharp, fresh pain of Charlotte and whatever would happen between us now, I couldn’t say. I couldn’t do anything but lie there, feeling the crushing sensation in my chest and struggling to take in a breath, let it go, and begin again.

I was afraid.

I saw that now, afraid that if I acknowledged that choosing to let Charlotte in was a decision I’d already made, I’d fall apart and never be able to pull myself together again. If I let myself realize that she was already deeply important to me, a part of my life I could never relinquish, I’d have to reckon with so much. The agony of loss was ever-present in my life, but it needn’t be with Charlotte.

I had her, I knew I could have her. She was alive. Alive and real and interested in me, involved with my child, accepting of my situation. On some level, my pain dictated my actions and rejected Charlotte for the flimsiest excuse because I couldn’t bear the thought of losing someone again.

If Charlotte died, or if she left me, I would be broken beyond the point of return. Seeing Sarah’s portrait and picturing the way Charlotte and Ava would have worked together, handing each other paints or brushes while they chatted, was the catalyst.

I lay there for an unknown amount of time, reeling in my thoughts. The realization had surfaced and I had to act. But before I rejoined the Christmas festivities, I took out my journal. I had to work through this again, and there was only one person I wanted to talk to.

First, though, I read through old entries, treading through the pain one more time to remember what I’d gone through. To highlight how far I’d come.