Page 85 of The Bright Side of Christmas
I tell myself that it will be fine, that the festival will still be amazing, and I’m just getting the hiccups out of the way early as I smooth the paper over the side of a box holding a doll.
The decorations are up, and they are more spectacular than ever. The stage is perfectly decorated and even more secure than before. On one wall are more baked treats than I think have ever been at this event, and despite myself, I know it’s because I insisted I couldn’t be the one to take it all on. Instead, I called my mom and told her we needed baked good donations, and she called up her friends, all of whom eagerly pitched in.
People will help; they just need to know you need it.I can almost hear Adam saying that in my head, but I brush it away quickly. Guilt over forgetting our date remains intertwined with the hurt and anger from our conversation. Still, I don’t have time for anything other than productivity and holiday cheer, so I’ve forced myself to put it off and deal with all of that later.
For now, I’m finishing up wrapping the gifts for Santa to give out to all the kids tonight, and even though my brothers are supposed to be helping me, it’s just me on my knees getting papercut after papercut while they pretend to do their own but haven’t wrapped more than a gift each. Mom is making sure the treat table is all set up with boxes for people to take extras home and plenty of tongs to keep germs away while Dad lugs in the drinks.
When I look around, I know I’ve done a great job with the decorations, craft tables, activities, and more. It’s the bestholiday festival to date and one people will be talking about all year long.
And I’ve never felt less festive in my life.
“Dude, you need to get out,” Madden says, leaning back against a wall, a roll of wrapping paper spread out in front of him, though there isn’t even a gift on it. He’s not even bothering to pretend. Though I try to ignore the irritation their blatant lack of help brings me, it bubbles beneath my skin.
“Yeah, I’ll be sure to fit that in between work at the farm, keeping my house clean, and making sure my daughter doesn’t grow up with daddy issues,” Jesse says under his breath.
“When was the last time you went on a date?” There’s a beat of silence, and Madden groans. “Dude.” Jesse, to his credit, is pretending to wrap a gift, though he’s doing it painfully slowly. In the time I’ve wrapped five gifts, he’s still on one. “That’s it. We’re going to the city the Friday after Emma goes back to school. You’re getting laid.”
“And this is when I remind you that I have a kid and can’t just fuck off wherever I want. You know that Mom and Dad go on their trip the first week of January.”
They’ve done that since we were kids: prioritizing their relationship after the chaos of the holidays and spending a week somewhere tropical to decompress. Every year, when my dad gifts my mom the trip, she acts shocked and confused, but by now, everyone knows they’ll be gone and plans for it a month in advance.
“Oh, well, Wren can watch her,” Madden says with a shrug. “What about Friday? We can go to the city and hit a couple of bars. I’ll pick you up at six; you just gotta drop Emma at Wren’s for a sleepover at five. That way, you don’t even have to worry about feeding her.”
This isn’t happening.
This can’t be happening.
There is no way they are making plans about me withoutconsultingme, right? Surely, Jesse, my older, wiser brother, will mention how crazy that is. Surely?—
“I mean, I guess that could work. I’d have to be back the next day by three to receive a delivery at the farm, though.” Jesse turns to me, finally, and I wait for him to ask if it would work for me.
That doesn’t happen.
“She has ballet in the morning at nine, you could take her to that, right?” Jesse asks.
My hands shake a bit as I sit back, staring at my brother with wide eyes.
Something in me snaps.
Something that no amount of Christmas spirit, a fake smile, or putting on blinders can mend.
The fact that no onebotheredto ask if I had anything going on, and that my brothers are making plans involving me without evenconsultingme, reminds me of everything Adam has said in the past month or so.
I need to put myself first more. I need boundaries. I need to be comfortable sayingno.
It’s not about being selfish, though. That’s where he got it wrong, I think. The wordselfishmakes it sound bad, like I’m screwing everyone over despite something stupid and silly formyself.
The fury rushing through my veins is not about being selfish. It’s about demanding the respect I deserve.
I’d be happy to give up every Friday for the foreseeable future to help my family, support Jesse, and spend more time with Emma.
But Ideservethe basic decency of beingaskedif I am willing to make that change in my schedule.
I toss the scissors down and turn to my brothers, rage in my veins. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask, loudly. Both of my brother’s eyes go wide, though I don’t know if it’s because I just threw a pair of scissors or cursed. Both, probably.
“Wren Taylor King!” my mother says, aghast, head snapping my way despite her being across the room. “Be careful with that!”
I have no patience or mind for my mother, though. My ire is directed wholly at my brothers, even though it’s something that’s been welling and not just from them.
