CHAPTER 8
Christmas Day dawned gray and quiet at the beach.
I woke up early, as I always did.
I made coffee in the little pot by the motel room door.
I sat by the window and watched the waves roll in, one after another, steady as breathing.
It was strange, spending Christmas morning alone.
Not bad strange.
Just… different.
For forty-five years, my Christmas mornings had started the exact same way.
I would wake at five.
I would tiptoe downstairs so I wouldn’t wake anyone.
I would start the coffee.
I would put the cinnamon rolls in the oven.
I would check that the Santa gifts were arranged just so under the tree.
Then I would sit in the dark kitchen, drinking my first cup of coffee, and wait for the pitter-patter of little feet on the stairs.
That sound—the sound of children running to see what Santa had brought—was the soundtrack of my adult life.
I had not realized how much I would miss it until it was gone.
I picked up my phone.
I had a dozen text messages already.
Merry Christmas, Mom.
We love you.
Thinking of you.
Pictures of the kids in their Christmas pajamas, wild-haired and sleepy-eyed, holding up their new toys.
A selfie of Sarah and Mark, both making ridiculous faces, with the words WE SURVIVED written across the bottom.
I smiled at each one.
I replied to every message.
I told them I loved them.
I told them I was proud of them.
I told them I would see them soon.
Then I got dressed and walked down to the beach.
Marnie was already there, her dog trotting beside her, carrying a thermos.
“Merry Christmas, runaway,” she said, handing me a cup of hot cocoa. Extra marshmallows. Just how I liked them.
“How did you know?”
“Sweetheart, I’ve been doing this a long time. I know everything about everybody. Also, your daughter called the motel office last night. She was very concerned that you were eating enough. She left her number in case you collapsed from lack of pie.”
I laughed.
“That sounds like Sarah.”
We walked along the water’s edge.
The beach was nearly empty.
A few other walkers, bundled up against the cold, waved as we passed.
Somewhere far away, a church bell rang.
“So,” Marnie said, kicking at the sand. “You going back tomorrow?”
“Day after. Twenty-seventh, like I planned.”
“And then what?”
I thought about it.
I thought about Sarah’s promise that holidays would rotate.
I thought about Mark saying they would pay me for babysitting.
I thought about all the things that were going to be different.
And I thought about all the things that would probably stay exactly the same.
Because people don’t change overnight.
Not really.
Bad habits are like weeds. You can pull them up, but if you don’t stay vigilant, they grow right back.
“I’m going to set boundaries,” I said. “That’s the big one. I’m going to say no when I mean no. I’m going to ask for help when I need it. I’m going to stop trying to be everything to everyone all the time.”
“Easier said than done.”
“I know. But I have to try. Because if I go back and fall right into the old patterns… then this whole trip was for nothing. And I can’t do that. Not to them. Not to myself.”
Marnie nodded.
“Boundaries are good,” she said. “But let me give you one more piece of advice. Leave a little room for grace. For them and for you. They’re going to mess up. They’re going to fall back into old habits. And you’re going to want to rescue them. You’re going to want to step in and fix everything because that’s what you’ve always done. When that happens… take a breath. Remember why you left. And then decide, in that moment, what is actually kind versus what is just easy.”
She stopped walking and turned to face me.
“Kindness isn’t always doing things for people. Sometimes kindness is stepping back and letting them do it for themselves. Even if they do it badly. Even if it makes you crazy to watch.”
Her dog dropped his tennis ball at my feet.
I picked it up and threw it.
“You’re very wise, you know that?” I said.
Marnie laughed.
“Wise is just a nice word for old and tired of everyone’s nonsense. I’ve earned every gray hair on this head. And now I’m passing the wisdom along to you. Consider it a Christmas gift. No returns.”
We walked back to the motel as the sun broke through the clouds.
I spent the rest of the day exactly how I wanted.
I read my book.
I napped.
I ordered the Chinese food I had been promising myself—sweet and sour chicken, pork fried rice, an egg roll.
I watched It’s a Wonderful Life on the television, just like I did every year.
Halfway through the movie, when George Bailey is standing on the bridge screaming that he wants to live, my phone buzzed.
A video call from Sarah.
I answered.
The screen was filled with chaos.
Eight children in various states of dress, holding new toys and yelling MERRY CHRISTMAS GRANDMA! at the top of their lungs.
Behind them, I could see Mark and David and Lisa, all looking exhausted but happy.
“Mom!” Sarah said, holding the phone so she could see me. “Look! We did it! All eight kids, all day, no help, no fires, only one trip to the emergency room—just kidding, nobody went to the hospital! Well, the baby did swallow a penny but we called the nurse line and she said it’ll pass!”
I stared at her.
“A penny?”
“She’s fine! Totally fine! We’re keeping an eye on her! Anyway—look at the tree! We didn’t break a single ornament! Well… we broke one. But it was the cheap one from the dollar store. The good ones are all intact!”
I laughed until my eyes watered.
“I’m so proud of you,” I said. “All of you.”
Sarah’s face softened.
“We couldn’t have done it without you,” she said. “Even though you weren’t here. You taught us everything we know. Even if we had to learn it the hard way.”
The camera shifted.
Mark was holding up a plate of cookies.
They were… well, they were cookies. Sort of. Some were burnt around the edges. Some were still raw in the middle. None of them looked anything like the perfectly shaped, perfectly iced sugar cookies I made every year.
“We made these for you,” Mark said. “They’re terrible. Don’t eat more than one. We just wanted you to see that we tried.”
“They look perfect,” I said. And I meant it.
We talked for another hour.
The kids showed me every single toy they had received.
Sarah gave me a tour of the kitchen—which was, predictably, a disaster area.
Mark showed me the wall the twins had colored on. They had tried to clean it. You could tell. There were streaks of Magic Eraser everywhere. But the crayon marks were still faintly visible.
“History,” Mark said, patting the wall. “From now on, this is the official Crayon Incident of Christmas Twenty-Twenty-Five. We’ll tell our grandchildren about it.”
When we finally hung up, I sat back on the bed and looked at the television.
George Bailey was hugging his family.
*Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.*
I thought about my own family.
Messy.
Loud.
Imperfect.
Mine.
I thought about all the years I had spent trying to give them a perfect Christmas.
Trying to be the perfect mother.
The perfect wife.
The perfect grandmother.
And I realized something I should have realized a long time ago.
Perfect is boring.
Perfect is cold.
Perfect is for people who are too afraid to be real.
My family was not perfect.
I was not perfect.
But we were real.
And we loved each other.
Even when it was hard.
Even when we messed up.
Even when we had to drive six hours to find each other again.
That was enough.
More than enough.
I turned off the television.
I got ready for bed.
Outside, the ocean kept rolling.
Inside, I was already looking forward to going home.
Not to the old life.
To the new one.
The one where I was still Mom. Still Grandma. Still the one they called when things went wrong.
But also… me.
Just me.
The woman who liked romance novels and bad wine and long walks on the beach.
The woman who was sixty-seven years old and finally, finally learning how to put on her own oxygen mask first.
I climbed into bed and turned off the light.
May you like
Merry Christmas, Henry, I thought to the darkness.
I think we did good.
