Page 101 of Mistletoe and Mayday
“Tonight, we have a special guest. Please join me in welcoming Miss Bailey Monroe.”
The way she pronounces my name—like she’s plucking it with sterilized tweezers—makes me want to melt into the expensive carpet. The spotlights swing toward the stage entrance.
“Ms. Monroe?” The clipboard stagehand reappears, expectant.
Oh God. This is me. It’s really happening. My feet feel bolted to the floor.
I step out, and the spotlights swallow me whole. Hundreds of faces blur into a single, expectant mass. Diamonds flash, cufflinks gleam. Every eye is on me, and I can almost hear the collective thought:Who is this? Why is she here? What could she possibly say?
My hands tremble as I unfold my prepared speech. The words swim before me, all those crafted sentences designed to sound proper, polished, acceptable.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the Lockhart Foundation...” My voice is a tiny mouse squeak in the vast space.
Then I find him.
Sebastian. Standing at the edge of the room, a dark, solid presence in his tuxedo. He’s not looking at me with curiosity or judgment. His gaze is a laser beam of absolute certainty. He smiles, a slow, steady smile, and his lips form three words:You’ve got this.
I breathe deep. Look down at the paper. These aren’t my words. This isn’t me.
“I had a speech prepared,” I say, setting the paper aside. “It was very nice. Very proper. Very...not me.”
Someone in the front row shifts.
“The Lockhart Children’s Neurodiversity Center means more to me than you might guess,” I continue, my voicefinding its strength. “I was the weird child. My report cards said ‘bright but talkative.’ ‘Distracted.’ ‘Inappropriate.’”
I look out at the faces, making eye contact now.
“What they meant was different. I was different. And I knew it, even if nobody ever gave it a name.”
My fingers twist together, a nervous habit, but I don’t stop.
“Growing up, I thought I was just...wrong. Doing everything wrong. Talking too much, missing social cues, fixating on things nobody else cared about. I thought if I tried harder, I’d fit in.”
A woman in the third row leans forward, her expression softening.
“I got good grades. I could do the work. I could behave...mostly. So I was fine, right? Except I never had friends. Because children know. They always know who’s different, even when they can’t explain why.”
The room is silent. No clinking glasses, no whispers, no shuffling feet.
“I was lucky,” I say, my voice steady now. “My parents never let anyone look down on me. They taught me I could do anything—which might explain why I fly planes through storms for a living while they desperately wanted me to be a doctor.”
A few chuckles ripple through the audience.
“They got a pilot instead. Mom still introduces me as ‘my daughter, the almost-doctor’ at family reunions.”
The laughter is genuine this time, spreading through the crowd.
“I had parents who defended me when teachers called me disruptive. Who understood that my snow globe collection wasn’t just weird but something that comforted me.”
I glance at Sebastian, his gaze a steady anchor.
“I’m many things. A woman. A pilot. A friend. A sister.” My heart pounds, but I push on. “And Sebastian taught me I could also be a partner—that someone could love me for who I am, not despite it.”
Heads nod. A hand reaches for a tissue.
“But not every child has that support. Not every child has someone telling them their differences are valid. That’s why centers like this matter. Because difference shouldn’t mean isolation. It shouldn’t mean shame.”
My voice cracks, but I keep going.
