Page 2 of Decked By The Grumpy Golem
The house hits me like a time machine the moment I step through the front door. Everything is exactly the same as it was when I left for college ten years ago, just with more Christmas decorations layered on top. Garland drapes the banister, stockings hang from the mantle, and twinkling lights are wrapped around everything that doesn't move. The scent of pine and cinnamon fills the air, underlaid with something that's purely home. Wood polish, Mom's vanilla candles, and the lingering aroma of whatever she cooked for dinner.
I should feel comforted. Instead, I feel even more out of place.
"Sit, sit!" Mom bustles toward the kitchen. "I'll get that herbal tea. And pie. You're too skinny, honey. Are you eating enough? I worry about you in that big city all by yourself."
I sink into the familiar embrace of Dad's old recliner, the leather worn soft from decades of use. "I'm fine, Mom. Really."
"You don’t look fine," Dad says quietly, settling on the couch across from me. "You look tired."
Thanks, Dad. Really what every woman wants to hear.
Mom returns with a tray laden with herbal tea, pie, and enough napkins to clean up a small disaster. She's practically vibrating with excitement as she hands me a steaming mug.
"Oh, this is just perfect timing," she gushes. "Mateo and Mara are dropping the girls over tomorrow before they go to work, and we're all going to Hallowell Farm for cocoa and sleigh rides. The twins have been talking about it for weeks! They'll be so excited to see their aunt Lucia."
My stomach does another one of those unpleasant flips. My brother has the perfect Hallmark movie family. Married to a gorgeous trollwoman, they are as happy as a Christmas card and share the most adorable twin girls. Isla and Arwen are six years old and the cutest things under the sun, but I see them maybe twice a year and they probably think of me as that weird lady who sends birthday presents but never shows up to the parties.
"You should come," Dad adds, and there's something in his tone that makes it less of a suggestion and more of a gentle challenge. "The girls barely know their aunt. This is your chance."
The guilt hits me like a slap. He's right, and we both know it. I've been so focused on building my career that I've missed out on watching my nieces grow up. I send gifts and cards, but I don't show up. I don't make memories with them.
"It'll be just wonderful to be all together," Mom continues, her eyes bright with unshed tears of happiness. "One big happy family!"
The weight of their expectation settles on my shoulders like a lead blanket. How can I say no when Mom looks at me like I've just handed her the moon? How can I explain that the idea of family togetherness makes me want to crawl under a rock and hide?
"Of course," I hear myself saying. "That sounds lovely."
Mom actually squeals with delight, and even Dad's stern expression softens into something approaching a smile.
We chat for another hour about Mom's volunteer work at the local animal shelter, Dad's latest project in his workshop, the neighbor’s new puppy. Safe topics that don’t really count. I tell them about my book signings and the interview I did for theNew York Timesmagazine, carefully editing out all the parts about missed deadlines and creative bankruptcy.
When I finally claim exhaustion and head upstairs, Dad insists on carrying my bags. The familiar creak of the old wooden steps fills the silence between us as we climb to the second floor.
"You know," he says quietly as we reach the landing, "whatever trouble you're in, you can talk to us. We're here for you, Lucia. Always."
The careful way he says my full name, the gentleness in his voice nearly undoes me. For a moment, I consider telling him everything. About the writer's block that's been strangling my creativity for almost a year. About the deadline I've blown. Well, deadlines, plural. About the growing certainty that my publishing company is about to drop me and that my agent will follow suit. About my career circling the drain.
Instead, I just nod and blink back the tears that threaten to spill over.
"Thanks, Dad. I know."
He studies my face for a long moment, then pulls me into another hug. This one lasts longer, and I let myself sink into the solid comfort of his arms, breathing in the familiar scent of his aftershave.
When he pulls away, he cups my cheek briefly with one calloused hand. "Get some rest,mija. Things always look better in the morning."
If only that were true.
Then he leaves, closing the door quietly behind him. I turn to take in the dreaded view.
My childhood bedroom is a shrine to the girl I used to be. Boy band posters still paper the walls, their edges curling with age. My old books line the shelves with dog-eared copies of romance novels I devoured in high school, fantasy series that transported me to otherworlds, classic literature I struggled to understand. The twin bed is still covered with the same purple butterfly comforter I picked out when I was fourteen, complete with the collection of stuffed animals I couldn't bear to throw away.
Nothing has changed. It’s like stepping into the past. I feel like a bug trapped in amber.
I change into my pajamas and brush my teeth in the little bathroom I used to share with Mateo, still decorated with the same seashell wallpaper border Mom put up when we were kids. Everything is exactly as I left it, frozen in time, waiting for people who don't exist anymore.
Lying in the narrow bed, I stare at the ceiling and listen to my parents' voices drifting up from downstairs. The familiar rhythm of their conversation is punctuated by Mom's occasional laugh, making my throat clench. They're probably discussing my unexpected arrival, trying to figure out what brought their wayward daughter home.
I wish I could give them a better answer than "my life is falling apart and I have nowhere else to run."
