Page 82 of Love Letters to Christmas

Having her is everything.

But I can’t force her to understand that.

I can’t force this overwhelming gratitude and adoration into her blood.

I can’t.

And it is breaking my heart.

Voice raw, I say, “How can I help support you?”

“You shouldn’t have to take on the brunt of this, Brian.”

“I’m not asking just because I want you to be happy and healthy, Amelia. I wantyou. And I will do anything to close the distance between where we are now and wherever we need to be so I can have you.”

Her lips part, broken eyes filling with confusion. “I…I don’t understand.”

“I’m selfish. I’ve told you that. I’m just at peace with all my horrible pieces. I’d like to help you reach that same serenity in any way you think I can. So we can live happily, horribly, ever after.”

“People keep telling me that it’ll take time.”

“It will. But it takes less time with support.” I fill my lungs with air. “So. How are we doing this? What’s the game plan? Shall I write you letters of affirmations every morning, noon, and night?”

“That would get exhausting.”

I laugh. “Oh, precious girl. Mailnevergets exhausting.”

Her eyes widen. “I meant the affirming part, not the mail.”

“Oh.” Yes, that makes sense. I’m too used to dealing with unbelievers, I suppose. “I think it sounds like fun.”

“I think it sounds like conditioning…”

I frown. “Like you haven’t already been conditioned to hate yourself. Your parents have done an awful lot ofconditioning, Amelia. They’re the ones who raised you in an environment that has twisted your kindness and concern for others into some sort of horrible obligation. They’ve imprinted in your brain a focus on making sure you look good so you don’t make them look bad. You are already conditioned toward guilt and shame and never being good enough. So what if I’d like to condition you toward joy and peace and love? Wouldn’t you prefer to settle your self-worth into the hands of someone who loves you more than theylove themselves?”

A tear traces down my beautiful Amelia’s cheek, and she whispers, “Yes.” She turns her face so I can’t see her cry. Buried in my box of letters, she no doubt lets her teardrops fall onto the paper. “I keep having moments where things seem possible, and I swear I’ve figured it all out. But they slip away, leaving me back here in this place I don’t know how to escape.”

“Healing is a process of two steps forward and one step back.”

“It feels like one step forward and a dozen back. Because I should just be done already and stop bothering people with this nonsense.”

I touch her shoulder, and she tenses beneath my fingers.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Maybe…I do need therapy. I just don’t know how I would bring myself to do it when nothing I’ve experienced holds a candle to the abuse some people deal with. And I know that comparison doesn’t help anyone, and if something affected me, it affected me, but…comparison is what I’ve been raised in. I couldn’t betiredwithout my mother telling me she wasmoretired. I couldn’t work hard without her explaining how she was working harder. Every single moment of my childhood feels like some sort of exhausting and twisted game. I don’t know how to stop playing when it has been my life since forever. I’m so afraid of becoming my parents. I’m so afraid, all the time, of everything. I don’t want to live like this. I promise I don’t. But it’s all I’ve ever known, and I don’t know who I’d be without it.”

“Free,” I say.

Her eyes meet mine, wet lashes fluttering.

I push hair back from her cheek, over her ear, and repeat, “You’d be free.” Wiping the streaks from her face, I ask, “Would you like that?”

“Yes.” Her gaze falls. “But I don’t know if it’s possible tochange quickly enough, and I refuse to ask you to keep waiting for me.”

“You don’t need to ask. And I don’t need to wait. You…are staying with me, aren’t you?”

“You still want me to?”

“Always. My life is better with you in it. And even though you aren’t where you want to be right now, that’s still the truth. I can only imagine how much better it’s going to get.”

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