Page 88 of Someone Like You

‘The pandemic caused a baby boom,’ she says with a smile. ‘And of course, there’s the wedding,’ she adds, lowering her voice. It’s doubtful Monica can hear us – she’s in the kitchen and it sounds like she’s washing pots and pans.

‘Do us a favour,’ says Mom. ‘If you ever get married,don’thave a wedding during the holidays. Everything’s twice as expensive and even more difficult to source.’

‘Well, no wonder Aunt Christine is being such a Momzilla.’

Mom makes a face that it says, ‘That’s not the only reason,’ and we exchange knowing smirks.

‘Anyway, we’ve set aside the whole day tomorrow,’ says Dad.

‘Meaning?’ I ask.

‘Meaning,’ he says, leaning closer, ‘we’re having a Christine-free day.’

I look at Mom, confused.

‘I asked her to let us have some family time,’ she explains. ‘Just for tomorrow, then she can go back to catastrophising and bossing us around.’

I laugh. ‘There’s no way you saidthatto her.’

‘Well, no. I’m not a novice at handling my sister,’ she replies with a sly smile.

‘Anyway,’ says Dad, ‘I’ll take Raff down to the tree lot first thing.’

‘Will they still have decent trees this close to Christmas?’ I ask.

Dad shrugs. ‘Doesn’t matter. If we have to, we’ll save a scraggly tree from the woodchopper – give it a good home.’

‘That’s so cheesy, Dad.’

He chuckles to himself.

‘You and I will be on decorations –insideones,’ says Mom. ‘No Christmas lights outside after last year.’ She throws Dad a pointed look.

‘Why, what happened last year?’ I ask.

‘Your father nearly fell off the roof.’

‘What?’ I ask, my mouth wide with horror.

‘It was… I caught myself. It was fine. I was fine.’ He rolls his eyes, but Mom’s mouth flattens into an unimpressed line.

‘Anyway,’ she says to me, ‘you and I will get started on decorating. And…’ she says, as if she’s prefacing something controversial. I brace myself – I have no idea what it could be. ‘It might be a good time to go through all your old ornaments.’

‘My old… Wait, are you talking about the ones I made in elementary school?’

She maintains eye contact, nodding slowly while her mouth twitches.

‘So, you’re telling me you no longer want my macaroni masterpieces on the tree? Because isn’t that part of the parent–child contract? I bring home pasta that’s been spray-painted gold, and you give it pride of place on the tree for perpetuity.’

‘I don’t recall signing anything. How ’bout you, Roland?’ she asks Dad.

Dad looks off with a squint, pretending to scour his memory.

‘Yeah, you two are hilarious,’ I say. ‘But if my painstakingly made ornaments are being relegated to the junk pile, I get something in return.’

‘Like what, sweetheart?’ asks Dad.

‘It’s time for a moratorium on the “Gaby wet her pants on the gondola at Whistler” story. You’re never allowed to tell it again.’

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