Page 121 of Beautifully Messy
“I’ve tried being nice, Mason, but the truth is, I need more. I want a partner who fights for me, who challenges me, who actually sees me. I would rather be alone than stay with someone who isn’t fully there or looks at me like I belong to him.”
Mason pales. The fire crackles. No one speaks.
“I’m sorry you’re finding out this way,” I say, my eyes sweeping across the others. “I moved out months ago and we’re getting divorced.”
As the finality of my words settles over the room, I meet each set of eyes. Jules raises her wine glass. She’s been waiting for me to let loose on him for years. Ivy stands in the doorway of the kitchen. Her expression is harder to read, a complex mix of shock and realization. The unsaid parts of our conversation earlier now make sense to her. The fight I mentioned wasn’t philosophical. It was real, and this is the change.
Before the silence threatens to suffocate us, the kids thunder back in. Anna leads the charge, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. She throws herself into my arms.
Life doesn’t pause for change. It keeps going. And we must move with it.
Margaret is the first to act. She crosses the room with quiet purpose and pulls me into a firm hug. She holds me tight, her embrace the same as it was that first Christmas. “I still love you, Sydney.”
She walks to Mason and guides him toward the back deck, away from the audience. He resists, staying rigid, but when his face crumples, he lets her lead him away.
Some things have to break before they can heal.
***
Dinnerisaquiet,fractured affair.
People drift in and out of the kitchen, making plates and retreating to different corners of the cabin. By the time I help Anna with her bath and tuck her into bed, the house has settled into an uneasy peace. James’s voice drifts from the sunroom, talking with Tom. It’s the sound of him staying, proving again that he won’t run when things get sticky or uncomfortable.
Tomorrow is Christmas, and I need to make sure it’s special.
Margaret stands in the kitchen, working on her cinnamon rolls. When she sees me, her smile carries the weight of everything we’ve shared. Our moments that span over a decade, beginning with that first Christmas, making cinnamon rolls together. Her guidance during those months before Anna was born. Hercare after that first Christmas with Anna, when it was hard to ignore Mason’s lack of help. Our relationship will change too, maybe for the better.
“I can leave if you think that’s better,” I offer, stepping inside.
“No, please don’t do that, Sydney. Let’s have one last Christmas together as a family, and after that, you can figure out where you’re headed.” Margaret keeps kneading the dough, her gaze holding more understanding than sadness.
“Mind if I help?”
“Of course, dear.” She hands me the familiar checkered apron.
We work in silence, our movements practiced and easy, a rhythm we’ve perfected over the years. Flour dusts the counter like fresh snow, and the dough yields beneath our hands—soft and pliable, forgiving in a way words aren’t.
Once the rolls are nestled to rise, she pours wine and gestures toward the armchairs by the fireplace.
“I’m sorry if I missed how unhappy you’ve been.” She reaches across, gently squeezing my hand.
“Please don’t. You taught me what to expect from a partner, what love should be. Seeing you and Gary it helped me realize what was missing. What has always been missing.” I wrap my hand around hers. “I never wanted you to find out like that.”
“I know, dear. Relationships don’t end in a vacuum. Everyone plays their part.” She squeezes my hand with the strength of a woman who knows the challenges of life and love. We sit together sipping our wine, watching the flames play across the burning logs.
When James walks downstairs to the kitchen, I catch her watching me from the corner of her eye.
“I want you to be happy. You deserve someone who sees you the way you described. Don't settle for less than that. Love is always worth fighting for, even if it’s complicated.” She touches my shoulder lightly. “Goodnight, Sydney.”
I’m grateful for this woman. Margaret could have blamed me and chosen sides. Instead, she treated me with the same kindness she always has. She might not be Marmee, but that’s okay because real is better.
There’s one more person I need to see before I can think about sleeping.
I find Jules sitting by the fire pit outside. She’s curled in an oversized chair, Kindle in hand, her face lit by its soft glow.
“Well, that was a shit show,” I half-laugh, sinking into the chair beside her.
“He had it coming.” She pulls me into a massive hug, her arms squeezing every ounce of tension out of me. “And I’m so damn happy for you.” She leans back, eyes twinkling in the firelight. “Are you going to spill about your twenty-four hours?”
