Page 21 of Yuletide Acres

“Love always is.”

“This isn’t about love.”

“Yes, Dylan, it most certainly is.” My mother pauses, pouring herself some coffee. “She said you left her and never returned. Is that true?”

“I had to leave,” I mutter. I do not want to get into this right now.

“Without saying goodbye? Talk about poor form, son.”

“Dad was sick. I missed saying goodbye to him because I didn’t want to leave Poppy.”

Her eyes narrow as she shakes her head. “How is that Poppy’s fault?”

“I was addicted to her. I never wanted to be away from her. It wasn’t healthy.”

“But being this way—nameless women floating through hotel rooms—that’s what the doctor ordered?”

“It’s easy. Simple.”

“Screw simple. It’s also highly hypocritical of you to judge Poppy’s sexual past when you are currently engaged in several exploits of your own. Her alleged sexual past, I might add.”

“It’s different.”

“How?” my mother questions, her brow raising. “Because you aren’t shoving dollar bills at them? I wonder what Poppy will think of you when she learns of your reputation. You know what they say about people in glass houses.”

I feel my anger rising, and know that we need to change topics. Now. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“It isn’t Poppy’s fault that you didn’t make it in time to see your father.”

I slam my hands down on the table, making the dishes jump. “It’s mine, right? Everything is my fault.”

“No, it was just fate. That’s all, Dylan. Besides, your father got a kick out of the fact that you were traipsing the country and sowing your wild oats.”

“He wasn’t mad?” I always assumed he hated my nomadic lifestyle.

“Heavens, no. That’s what young people do. They explore. That’s how they discover who they are. He didn’t want you to remember him after the stroke—paralyzed and unable to speak. He didn’t want that memory for you. To be honest, I think he forced himself to leave so you wouldn’t see him like that. Instead, you’d remember him as he was.” She stands, giving me a hug about the shoulders. “He loved you. He wanted you happy, and you are not happy, my son. But only you can fix that situation.”

* * *

“Did you have fun today, Cupcake?” I ask Marissa, tucking her into bed. Her room is awash with all shades of pink and purple, but I worry that I never choose the right doll or dress.

It’s exhausting being both a mother and father to Marissa, and I’m forever grateful for my mother’s help. I couldn’t have done it without her. Even with all her assistance, I still feel like I’m missing the mark most days.

Marissa sniffles as she wipes her hand under her nose.

I glance around, looking for the scrap of cloth that Marissa always carries. “Where’s your handkerchief?”

“I gave it to Poppy. She was crying.”

Another punch in the gut. My six-year-old is more compassionate than her old man. “I’m sure she appreciated that. Did you have fun with Poppy?”

Marissa nods, smiling at me. “I really like her. We played with the dogs and cats at the shelter. One of the cats pulled her sweater, but she didn’t care. She laughed. She has the prettiest laugh, Dad. I think she’s the prettiest woman I’ve ever met.”

I agree, little girl. “She’s very beautiful, but what about your Mom? Isn’t she the prettiest woman?”

Marissa shrugs, picking at her blanket. “I never met her Dad. I love Mom, but I don’t know if I love her because I love her or because I’ve been told I’m supposed to.”

My poor child. She’s such an old soul. “Your Mom was a wonderful woman, and she was so excited to be having a little girl. She couldn’t wait to hold you.” I blink back tears at the memory. Merry held Marissa for exactly sixty seconds. That’s as long as she got before the hemorrhaging started, never to stop.

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