HIS CACKLING GIGGLE STREAMS DOWN the hallway, and before I even turn the corner, I know it’s Rocky. Peeking around the bend, I see his bright-red hair flopping as he hoists a basketball in the hair. It rolls along the rim of the portable hoop before cascading down the side and into the net that keeps the balls from bouncing every which way.

“Almost!” I say. “Flick your wrist a little more.”

“What do you know about basketball?” he asks, his little button nose crinkling.

“Hey, now,” I giggle, ruffling his hair. “I grew up hearing all kinds of sports conversations.”

He shoots me a look that tells me he’s not quite convinced. “All right. But hey,” he says, his eyes sparkling again as he throws his little arm haphazardly across his buddy, Tommy’s, shoulders. “We were wondering if we could do balloons again? You know, the ones that twist like animals and stuff.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, picking up Rocky’s enthusiasm. His head is bald now, but the nurses are saying he might be released soon. “I missed it last time. Can we do it again? Please?”

“I’ll do my best. Now it’s time for you guys to head to your rooms.”

“But before we go,” Rocky interjects, sticking a finger in the air, “one more question.”

“Make it quick,” I laugh.

“When is Lincoln coming back?”

Hearing his name makes my heart skip a beat. Rocky smiles wide and it’s a long moment before I realize he’s mirroring mine.

“I’m not sure, Rocky,” I admit. “But I think he’s planning on dropping by soon.”

“Yay!” Rocky shouts, before leading Tommy down the hall. “I told you he would be back! Just wait ’til he comes . . .”

The rest of the conversation is buried under the sound of sneakers squeaking against the tile and the racket of a medicine cart being wheeled down the hall. Glancing at the mail in my hand, I head back into my office.

The phone is ringing as I enter and I toss the envelopes on my desk and pick it up.

“Danielle Ashley,” I chirp.

“Hey, Danielle. It’s Gretchen.”

“How are the budget meetings going?”

A short laugh rips through the phone. It’s one of those laughs that isn’t a response to humor, but more of a cover-up for something else. Something less funny. “Shit,” she follows up. “My God, the board wants to hack us down to nothing!”

“You’re joking.” Reaching blindly behind me, I find the armrest to my chair and slide it beneath me. “What are they doing?”

“What are they not doing is the real question,” she huffs. “If they get their way, our budget going forward will look like a third of what it does now.”

“A third?” I nearly shout. “We can barely operate as it is! They can’t be serious.”

“They’re serious, Danielle. Dead serious. I just . . . I’m at a loss for words.” She ends her statement on a sigh, the weight of her battle landing on me.

This department was completely overhauled by me and Gretchen, made into something truly special. Parents fight for their kids to come here because of the atmosphere. We keep the kids lively, engaged. We keep them from remembering they’re sick.

A lump swells in my throat. “What can we do?” I ask.

“I’m doing everything I can, Danielle. Just send good vibes and a prayer if you can.” Her voice nearly breaks. “We can’t lose the funding. I’ll do everything I can.”

“I know that,” I whisper.

“I’m going to go. I need to get some numbers together before we resume our meeting this afternoon. You’ll have some minutes in your email if you want to take a look. I sent them this morning.”

I nod, even though she can’t see me. Before I find my voice, she’s said her goodbye and the dial tone blares in my ear.

Letting myself fall back into my chair, I survey my office. It’s bright and playful, a testament to the kids that have been through our program. My gaze lands on a picture taken a couple of years ago, a young family with a little girl with pigtails. Her mother came to my office the day she was released and told me her daughter made little progress in the two other facilities she was in before here. Here, she rebounded and she could never thank the program enough. I get updates from her every six months or so.

Flicking the mouse, I wait for my computer to fire up. When it does, I see a number of emails. The one from Gretchen is bolded and shines at me, begging to be clicked. But another one sits right above it, the name staring me in the face. It’s that one I click on first.

The lump in my throat just doubled and it’s difficult, if not impossible, to work around it. I wait, unmoving, to see how I react. Every time it’s different. Sometimes I cry, unable to push away the rejection of my own parents. Other times, I laugh at their self-absorption and wonder how miserable they must really be. And then there are times where a numbness settles over my soul and I can’t make any headway on how I really feel beneath it all. How am I supposed to internalize the absurdity of a second-hand invitation to a holiday with their housekeeper? It’s like I’m not good enough to be with them, just their help. An afterthought, as always.

It’s moments like this I’m grateful that the numbness is stronger than the hurt. That somehow I’ve trained myself to block out the most agonizing moments, like holidays, and just embrace the alternative: un-feeling. Maybe shock. Either way, it’s preferable.

Easter two years ago was the last time I was invited to my parents’ house and that was only because they needed me to put in an appearance. I went along with it because it was easier than being on the receiving end of their wrath. Or so I thought.

“You seem like such a sweet girl,” a wife of one of my father’s associates coos, swirling around an absurdly-priced wine around in an overpriced crystal glass. “Your mother was telling me that the two of you don’t quite see eye to eye on a lot of things.”

“That’s true.” The explanation is on the tip of my tongue, how my mother only cares about appearances and my father’s acceptance. That I don’t spend time with them because they don’t want me.

“Your mother told me how you refuse to accept their help.” She eyes me carefully, the wine blushing her cheeks. “It’s too bad you won’t let your mother get closer to you, honey. She has so many connections. I would love a daughter to shop with, go to the spa with,” she sighs. “It’s such a shame you and she are so different.”

“No, it’s such a shame she wants nothing to do with me,” I say aloud, startling myself. I jump again when my cell hums on my desk and am grateful to see Macie’s name on the screen. “Hey,” I say, blowing out a rickety breath.

“Hey! What’s happening?”

“Oh, the same old stuff. What about you?”

“What’s wrong, Danielle?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Of course I am,” I promise, although it isn’t completely true. “I’m fine.”

“You get like this every year around the holidays . . .”

“What do you expect when your parents take off for vacation and never invite you? I mean, I’m shocked they remember to email me,” I snort. “God knows they wouldn’t call me. Or text me.”

“Your parents are assholes.”

“That they are,” I agree weakly. ”But still . . .”

“But still nothing,” she retorts. “They don’t deserve you. They’re two of the most self-obsessed people in the world.”

I don’t respond because there’s nothing to contribute. And the longer this conversation happens, the worse I feel. Macie picks up on it, like she always does.

“Come here for Thanksgiving. Julia and I are cooking a huge ass meal. It’ll be fun.”

“Nah . . .”

“You are welcome here. We’d love to have you,” she says softly.

“I have too much going on here.” My eyes drift to my calendar and the blank slots surrounding Thanksgiving and the emptiness that fills the time around the holidays makes itself apparent. I cringe.

“We’ll chat about this later,” she warns. “But I need to go get back to work. My lunch break is over and I can’t even remember why I called. I’ll call you later if I remember.”

“Sounds good.”

Replacing the receiver on the cradle, I bury my head in my hands. My heart swells, causing the pain buried there to sweep up my throat and to my eyes. I try to blink back the hot, salty tears but one lone, solitary tear drips down my cheek. When I reach for a tissue, my hand stalls over the box. Lincoln is standing in the door, his face washed with some unnamed emotion. He doesn’t ask for permission to come in. He just does. The door latches softly behind him. He also doesn’t ask what’s wrong and he doesn’t wait for me to tell him. He just storms around my desk and nearly lifts me out of my chair and pulls me into the deepest hug I’ve ever felt.

That does it. The tears stream, wetting his white t-shirt. He holds me against him, not saying a word. We stand like that for a long time. I couldn’t pull away if I wanted. He wouldn’t let me.

He reaches behind me and I hear the tissue box being moved. It’s only then he lets me lean back.

“Baby . . .” he says, his eyes full of trepidation. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I take a proffered tissue and turn away, cleaning up my face. “Just a bad day.”

“This isn’t how you do a bad day, Dani. Something’s wrong.”

His hands are on my shoulders, rolling them gently. It feels good to have him here, to have the physical and emotional support so available. I don’t really know what to do with it.

“Please talk to me,” he pleads.

“I’ll sound like a baby,” I laugh, the sound barely above a whisper. “This isn’t the Danielle I want you to know. I want you to see the strong, confident Danielle. Not . . . this.”

He whirls me around until I’m facing him. Our eyes are level, his jaw set in defiance. “I want to know every side of you. The confident side, the part of you that’s a little bitchy,” he grins, “the sweet one, and the baby one, if it exists.”

I wrap myself around his waist, needing to feel him. He smells like expensive cologne and sweat. My eyes close and I allow his scent to calm me. Once I’m sure I won’t lose control, I explain. “My parents sent me an email with their holiday plans.”

He stills. “And they are?”

“Their usual—St. Thomas for Thanksgiving, Aspen for Christmas.”

“Are you going?”

“I’d have to have an invitation to go,” I sniffle. “Don’t worry though. Their housekeeper will mail my Christmas present.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he barks. “Tell me you’re joking.”

I shrug helplessly. “It’s been this way my whole life. Even in high school, I’d find a friend to stay with for the holidays because they’d leave. It was that or stay home with the help.” My chest tightens as I remember watching the snow fall on Christmas Eve while the microwave counted down the minutes until my hot chocolate would be done. All of my classmates loved the holidays and would come back from break with stories of dinners and vacations and gifts and pranks. I’d spend my break making up the stories I’d tell. No one ever knew I’d really spent two weeks watching re-runs alone.

“I fucking hate them,” Lincoln insists.

“You don’t even know them.”

“I don’t have to and it’s probably better that I don’t,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “You’re coming to my house for dinner tonight. I’ll order something,” he chuckles. “But this isn’t up for negotiation, Dani. You’re coming. End of story.”

I don’t even fight it. I don’t want to. “I’ll be there.”