Page 62 of The Grumpiest Elf

But it’s ours for now, and neither of us are going to complain about the hardness of the carpeted floor versus a bed. And if we want variety, the kitchen counters are the perfect height for a lot of fun things. Dylan even stashes food in the fridge so we can have snacks.

On Christmas Eve, much to our mutual chagrin, we’re forced to go our separate ways once work is over, both of us with family traditions to uphold. Well, Dylan’s are more family traditions and mine are … new versions, I guess.

When I get home, Mom gets sugar cookie dough out of the fridge so we can cut out and frost cookies like we did when I was a kid. “We haven’t done this in years,” I say as she unwraps the plastic wrap from the disk of cookie dough.

She shrugs, not looking at me. “I thought it was time to revive the tradition. Make it new again.” She offers me a smile, and I know this is important to her in a way she won’t admit out loud.

“That sounds perfect,” I tell her.

I wash my hands and put on the apron she hands me, pulling the cookie cutters out of the cabinet where she has them now while she rolls out the dough.

Carefully avoiding my gaze, she transfers the stars and trees and snowmen shapes to a cookie sheet. “Have you spoken to your father lately?”

I freeze midway to bringing a piece of cookie dough to my mouth. Popping it in, I shake my head. “No. He’s left a couple of voicemails, but I haven’t listened to them. I’m fairly confident I know what they say, and it’s nothing he hasn’t said a million other times.”

Pressing her lips together, she nods. She’s not surprised. She knew that would be my answer, because he likely called her today or yesterday to complain that he can’t get ahold of me and to try to bully her into bullying me into talking to him. Or caving and doing what he wants and calling to tell him so. That would be his preference, of course.

Unfortunately for him, this is as close to bullying as Mom gets. “It might be nice to call and wish him a Merry Christmas tomorrow at least.”

“I’ll think about it,” I grumble with a shrug, because that’s the best I can offer right now. I’m not particularly interested in doing even that much, because it’ll just give him an opportunity to lecture me more. And if he’s not willing to help me unless I do exactly what he wants, why should I wish him a Merry Christmas?

But I keep those thoughts to myself, because I know it’ll just upset Mom. Her dearest wish was that Brooke and I wouldn’t be overly affected by their divorce, and the fact that I need a break from school at all is just proof that’s not how reality works. And now that Dad and I aren’t talking? It’s just worse. And I hate that it makes her life more difficult as well, because if I give in and do what he wants, he’ll quit harassing Mom.

I can’t do it, though. No matter how much part of me thinks maybe I should, that little voice that always vied for his approval and tried her best to keep everyone happy whispering,Just do it. Go back to school after Christmas. You can hack it. Besides, you’ll make Dylan happy too.

Finally, I say it out loud. “I can’t do what he wants just because it’s what he wants, Mom.” The words are barely more than a whisper.

Mom stops rolling the dough for the next batch to go in the oven and looks up at me, her face a mix of surprise and distress. “Oh, honey. I know that. I don’t want you to do what he wants just to make him happy either.” She shakes her head, attacking the dough with the rolling pin again. “No one knows better than me that it won’t end with you happy.”

My heart pinches at the pain in her voice.

“I hate that he’s bothering you about it, though.”

She shakes her head, still rolling the dough aggressively. “I can handle your father,” she assures me. Then she stops and meets my eyes again. “I know you need time, honey. I hate to see you hurting, and I hate that he won’t be reasonable, but I know you aren’t just doing this to make him mad or punish him or whatever it is he thinks.”

My gut clenches. “He thinks I’m trying to punish him?” The words are little more than a squeak and the way Mom presses her lips together is all the answer I need. “God! Has he always made everything all about him? How have I not seen that before?”

Mom gives me a look full of sympathy. “Oh, honey. He’s your father. It’s normal to want to see the best in him. And he thinks he’s looking out for your best interests. He’s just …”

“Going about it all wrong?” I supply in the blank she’s left hanging.

She tips her head to one side. “That’s as good a way to put it as any.” She looks down at the cookie dough. “I think if I keep rolling this, it’ll be paper thin, so I better stop so we can cut more cookies. Oh!” She sets aside the rolling pin and dusts off her hands, rummaging through a drawer and pulling out little clay disks with handles attached. “I got these cookie stamps too. I know we’ve always done the traditional shapes, but since we’re revamping the tradition, I thought it would be fun to add something new into the mix.”

I give her a smile. “That sounds perfect, Mom.”

* * *

Our Christmas morning is lazy, both of us waking up whenever, though Mom is up before me, and when I emerge from my bedroom a little before ten o’clock, the smell of coffee cake fills the condo.

I give her a smile, accepting the mug of coffee she pours me and doctoring it to my liking. “You made coffee cake,” I murmur, taking a sip.

“Of course I did.” She refills her own coffee. “It’s Christmas morning.”

“Merry Christmas, Mom.”

She gives me a hug. “Merry Christmas, baby girl.”

We listen to Christmas carols and munch on sugar cookies while we wait for the coffee cake to finish baking and open our presents. It doesn’t take long to exchange gifts with just the two of us. Mom got me a pair of pretty earrings of nesting silver circles that turn and twist independently and a new pair of Bluetooth earbuds. “They’re supposed to be the latest and greatest,” she says, “and I know things go obsolete after a year or two, so I thought you might like new ones.”

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