Page 111 of The Very First Night

“You’re right.” I bite down on the inside of my cheek.

“Have you had a chance to talk to your mom about what happened yesterday?”

I’ve been struggling to find the right words to discuss it with her, but ultimately I feel a sense of guilt. For years, I harbored resentment toward my mom for not trying harder with my dad, for not even pushing him to provide more child support. I never could grasp why she would rather work seventy hours a week at the restaurant, missing recitals, parties, and holidays, all to do it on her own. However, now that I’ve actually met the man, I can understand why she chose to distance herself from him.

“No, not yet.”

FIFTY-FIVE

KAT

Christmas morning as a kid was always my favorite day. What kid doesn’t love Christmas? But more than anything, it was because it was the one day a year that Pip’s was closed and the only day I could guarantee my mom wouldn’t end up having to pick up a shift. It was always my favorite day.

As I enter the kitchen, the familiar scent of sizzling bacon and bubbling cheese fills my nostrils. My mom stands at the counter with her favorite apron tied around her waist, delicately cracking eggs into a bowl. She turns to smile at me, and I can’t help but feel a lump form in my throat as I think about how she makes this egg bake every year without fail—just for me.

“Do you want some coffee?” She steps back from the counter and opens the cabinet, revealing a mismatched collection of mugs and grabbing one with a cartoon cat on it. She pours piping hot coffee, adding a strong splash of hazelnut creamer and a spoonful of sugar before handing it to me without waiting for an answer.

I gratefully grasp the hot cup, my fingers tingling with warmth. Setting it on the kitchen counter, I pull her into a warm embrace, feeling her arms wrap tightly around me.

She chuckles in surprise. “What’s this for?” she asks.

A small sigh escapes my lips and I’m unable to hold back the tears any longer.

She tilts her head back and looks at me. “What’s wrong?” she asks, her voice soft with worry.

“Thank you,” I reply shakily. “For being the one who stayed.”

Concern morphs to relief as she steps back and squeezes my arm. “Oh, honey, you don’t have to thank me for that. I’m your mom; that’s what moms do.”

“I met Dad,” I blurt.

She raises her brows before she walks over and shuts off the burner. “When?”

“A few days ago. Um, Patrick—” She looks at me, confused. “Patrick is his son. He contacted me a few months ago and…”

And so I tell her all of it—I tell her how he found one of my old letters; how he sent me one in return and how at first I thought it was from my dad; how we’ve seen each other a few times and how I think we could really have a relationship. I tell her that Christina died and my dad has cancer, but I choose to leave out the awful things he said about her.

I know my mom, and the warped perception he has of her could not be further from reality.

“How bad is it?” she asks when I’m done.

“The cancer? I mean, I don’t know a ton of details, but I can’t imagine Patrick would have asked me to see him if it was good.”

She nods as she stares down at the counter, wiping away grime that isn’t there. “Are you okay?”

How is it, that amidst everything this man has put her through, she still manages to stay so tight-lipped about it? How can she be so focused on me being okay about the potential death of a man like that?

“He’s horrible, Mom.” My voice cracks, but I hold my tears at bay—I’ve cried far too much over the past few days to ruin Christmas by doing it again. “Why did you never tell me?”

She pauses for a moment before her eyes meet mine, a glassy sheen coating them. “A girl should think highly of her father, or at the very least she shouldn’t hate him. He’s your dad and I never wanted to give you reasons to hate him. Pat is a complicated man and, yes, at times cruel. But…he gave me you.”

“I love you, Mom.”

My mom reaches for a kitchen towel and dabs away the residual moisture on her waterline. With a wide grin, she playfully nudges me and says, “I love you too, sweetie. Now help me get this damn egg bake in the oven.”

As we finish savoring every last bite of the delectable egg bake, my mom and I leisurely make our way to the living room, where a beautiful Christmas tree stands tall and proud, its branches decorated with an eclectic mix of ornaments. Each one holds a special memory, a story to be told over and over again. My eyes light up as I spot the homemade ones I crafted as a child, still proudly displayed on the tree. The twinkling lights and glittering baubles reflect the joy and warmth of the holiday season, filling the room with a sense of nostalgia.

“I can’t believe you kept that one—it looks like a turd.” I laugh, pointing to one of the homemade ones, a stack of popsicle sticks haphazardly glued together and painted dark brown.

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