Page 48 of Single Mom's Christmas Wish

“I don’t want to feel like I owe them,” I mumble, but even I can’t make sense of my own reasoning at this point.

Maisie’s cry has me jumping out of my chair as she comes running. “Mommy! Mommy!”

“What is it, honey?” I ask, worriedly checking her from top to bottom.

My baby girl seems physically okay. There’s nothing out of place. She looks adorable in her pale blue dress with sequin wings sewn across the back and her hair pulled up in a cute little ponytail. But it’s the tears welling in her eyes that have my nerve endings flaring.

“Trevor was mean to me!” she says.

Chelsea and I both freeze, exchanging brief glances before we look at Trevor. He’s on the couch, playing Nintendo. He seems fine, focused on the game, and not really bothered by Maisie’s sobs.

“What do you mean, baby?” I ask my daughter.

“He said girls are stupid and that they can’t play video games. I told him I’m pretty good at Fruit Wars and Zelda’s Quest, but he said those games are for babies,” she explains, trying to convey her emotions as clearly and as eloquently as possible. “And then I told him that I’m not a baby, but he said I am one if I’m still playing Fruit Wars. And now, he won’t let me play Zombie Hunt.”

“What’s Zombie Hunt?” Chelsea chimes in.

“Trevor says it’s a game for big boys,” Maisie replies. “I said I wanted to play, too, but he won’t let me.”

I look at Maisie and kiss her warm forehead. “Here, stay with Chelsea for a minute, okay, honey? She’ll make you a hot chocolate.”

“With marshmallows?”

“Yeah, well, it’s not really hot chocolate without the marshmallows, now is it?” Chelsea replies. It seems to be enough to soothe my baby’s hurt feelings, so I leave the two of them in the kitchen and head back into the living room.

“Hey, kiddo,” I say.

Trevor ignores me at first. He’s busy killing some ugly-looking zombies with a crowbar. The sound effects on this game are a tad too realistic for my auditory senses.

“Hey,” I say again, gently, as I sit next to him on the sofa. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m playin’,” he replies, his eyes glued to the TV screen while his fingers fiddle over the controller.

His black hair has grown longer, silky, and messy, and it partially covers his forehead. He’s been wearing black or dark blues and greens ever since I met him, but I remember Reed telling me he used to love wearing brighter colors.

His clothes speak plenty about his mood since his parents died. I get it. I need to go easy on the kid; I’ve been there, and I know what it’s like. But I can’t let him be mean to my daughter, either. Maisie’s too young to fully understand what he’s going through.

“I understand you and Maisie argued just now?” I ask in a soft voice.

“I didn’t argue. I just told her she couldn’t play a zombie game. It’s not for little girls.”

He sounds calm. I nod slowly. “Okay, but are you sure you used the right words and tone? Maisie is crying.”

“She’s a baby.”

“No, Maisie is a girl with feelings and emotions, just like you are a boy with feelings and emotions,” I say, trying to find the right angle and approach. “And we need to use our words carefully so as not to hurt others, okay?”

Trevor finishes killing one last zombie, then sets the controller down and looks at me. “Did Maisie say I was mean?”

“It’s how she felt,” I reply.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to. But she was bugging me, and I can’t really play with her. She’s so little.”

“You’re not that big yourself,” I chuckle lightly, “though I understand. It’s okay, Trevor, you don’t have to play with her. But you do need to be a bit more careful about how you talk to people. Most of them don’t know what you’re going through.”

“I’m not going through anything,” the pint-sized stoic says.

“Trev, did I ever tell you about my parents?”

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