Daddy's Coming Home For Christmas

Beth My six-year-old daughter had her nose plastered against the sliding glass door, watching the big fluffy snowflakes drift down from a steel grey sky to create a delicate white veil over the replicated statue of Apollo and Daphne that graced the front yard. “Look Mommy! It’s snowing!” Lucy said happily. “Can we get the Christmas decorations down now?” I tried not to groan out loud. I didn’t want to dampen her vivacious holiday spirit with my Scrooge attitude. She was too little to understand that Christmas was the day that my heart was forever and irrevocably broken. Not to mention the cold weather meant the heating bill was going to skyrocket. “Not today, Peanut,” I said, as I finished rinsing the breakfast dishes. “I have to take Nana Charlie to physical therapy today.” She turned from the window and gave me a sad, accusatory look with her whiskey-colored eyes. “But you said ‘After Thanksgiving.’ It’s after Thanksgiving!” I wiped my hands on a kitchen towel and then hung it neatly over the faucet. “I know, I know. I tell you what, let me take care of Nana first, and then I’ll go up into the attic and take down one box. “Just one?” her lower lip twitched like she was thinking about pouting. “To start,” I said, circling the counter to give her hair a ruffle. “We’ll get the rest down on Saturday.” She put her hands on her little hips. “Do you promise?” “Yes, I promise.” Never make your kid a promise you can’t keep. That was one of my parenting mantras. Lucy finally nodded, and her shiny black curls danced around her cherubic face. I was so glad she had inherited her father’s dark Italian good looks, and not my pasty skin and flaming red hair. “Go start your worksheets while I get Nana ready.” She danced off to the study, where she had a little desk set up in the corner, neatly organized with her day’s home school assignments. I went down the opposite hall. The small room had once been Nana Charlie’s craft room, but after she had the stroke, she could no longer get up and down the stairs to her bedroom on the second story. So I cleaned out the sewing machine and the shelves of fabric and ribbons and threads and replaced them with a sturdy twin bed, and the side table and bureau from her bedroom upstairs. I knocked lightly on the door before I pushed it open and poked my head inside. “Good morning, Nana Charlie,” I said brightly. “Shall we get ready for your appointment today?” Charlotte “Charlie” Segretto was my ex-mother-in-law, but she had been a better mom to me than my own biological mother had ever been. She was a tiny but formidable Italian woman, with long, straight hair that was still more black than white. Since the stroke, her right side was very weak, and she had difficulty talking. Gabriel had wanted to put her in a nursing home. But when he found out how much it would cost, he agreed to let me continue to stay in the house and take care of her. Especially when I pledged to cover all the maintenance and upkeep on the old Victorian monstrosity. I didn't have the money to rent an apartment for me and Lucy after the divorce. Little did I know how expensive the old house was going to be. The meager income I made at my tailoring shop was barely enough to feed us, let alone keep the big old house with heat and electricity. But, it was the only home that Lucy had ever known. It’s not like Gabe needed the house anyway, he had moved into a newer, modern lake house with his new wife, Ashley, long before Nana Charlie got sick. I helped Charlie finish getting dressed in a bright purple sweat suit, and then set the walker in front of her. She scowled at it fiercely. She didn’t need to speak to let the world know how much she hated the assistive device. She took it from me, shook it a little bit like she wanted to wring its metallic parts like a skinny neck, and then braced herself, so I could help her stand. “Lucy! Let’s go! Get your coat and boots on!” I called, as Charlie started her slow shuffle to the back door. Lucy came running down the hallway, and skidded to a stop. “Hi Nana Charlie! Guess what? It’s snowing! We’re going to start decorating for Christmas today!” Charlie tried to smile, but only the left half of her face responded, leaving her expression strangely asymmetrical. Lucy pulled on her winter boots and her coat, and then dashed out the door without her hat and mittens. “Like…her…fa…fa” Charlie said, shaking her head. "Father," I finished for her. I wondered if Nana was referring to my ex-husband, or to Lucy’s actual birth-father. But I didn’t ask her to clarify. Lucy didn’t know that Gabriel wasn’t her real dad, and I didn’t want to confuse Charlie if she’d forgotten. Nana Charlie couldn't get down the front steps, so we went out through the garage, and I helped her get settled in the passenger seat. Luckily, she was small, like a fragile little bird, and I was able to maneuver her by myself. Once I got her buckled in, I checked that Lucy was secured in her booster seat, and I slid behind the wheel, praying that the aging Honda would start. It was quite temperamental, especially now that the temperatures were dropping below freezing. Luckily, it turned over easily, and I was able to drive Nana to the physical therapist for her thrice-weekly session with Mitchel. I ignored the sign for Segretto Realty as we drove past. The sign featured Gabe’s smiling face as he stood with his arm around a grinning blonde Ashley. But Lucy saw it and bounced in her seat. “Look! Look, Daddy’s office! Can we stop?” I tried not to grind my teeth together. “Yes, that’s Daddy’s office, but you know he’s not inside. He’s probably out showing houses.” “Oh,” She sounded so disappointed. My heart ached for her. Then she perked up again, “Do you think Daddy will be home for Christmas?” I glanced over at Nana Charlie. Her blue eyes looked back at me, full of sympathy and understanding. I gripped the steering wheel tighter as I tried to let my daughter down gently. “I don’t think so, baby. Daddy is probably going to Ashley’s family’s home for Christmas again this year.” In the rear view mirror, I saw my daughter deflate again. She fell silent and looked morosely out the window at the snow that no longer held any magic or excitement. I could kill Gabe for disappointing her. He might not be her sperm donor, but his name was on her birth certificate. He was the only man Lucy had ever known as her father. When Raphael Segretto left me seven years ago, alone, pregnant and desperate, his younger brother Gabe had stepped up and offered to marry me. He gave us a home, a family, and he gave Lucy his last name. He might not care about me, but didn’t he love Lucy, at least a little bit? Apparently not. Gabe’s visits since he married Ashley had been few and far between. In fact, he hadn’t made time to do a daddy-daughter day in months. And the meager amount of child support he’d promised during our divorce proceedings had also dwindled away to nothing. I pulled into the Townline Physical Therapy office and parked the car near the handicap accessible ramp. “Okay, Nana,” I said with forced cheerfulness, “Time to do your exercises!"