Page 17 of Daddies' Holiday Toy
Pulling myself out of the memories, I quickly get to work.
Scrubbing, dusting, vacuuming and polishing every wood surface until they practically gleam.
I even fluff the damn pillows in each bedroom and rearrange the firewood basket by the fireplace.
Hours pass in a blur of motion, my mind a blank space except for the rhythmic scrape of a broom and the ache in my shoulders.
When I’m finally done, the place looks like something out of one of those grocery story catalogs.
Cozy and pristine, ready for my dad’s precious “boys trip.”
I collapse onto the couch from exhaustion, every muscle in my body humming with a slight ache.
It’s different than what I’m used to working at the bakery, bending over ovens and low counters all day.
My hands are stiff as I wring them out a few times.
The cushions dip under me while I settle back into the couch, a long exhale leaving me.
My phone buzzes from somewhere nearby, forcing me to sit up again and pat the couch until I find it wedged between the cushions.
I grab it and answer it without looking.
“Hello?”
“Hey, sweetheart. Did you make it up okay?”
The moment I hear my mom’s voice, some of the tension in my shoulders melts.
“Yeah.” My eyes shift over to the window. “Storm’s still bad, so I’m going to wait it out a few hours before heading back.”
Through the glass, I can see the snow still falling in thick sheets, swirling in unpredictable currents that have me practically mesmerized.
It’s beautiful in an unsettling way.
She sighs softly. “Alright, you keep me updated, okay? I don’t want you staying too late where you’ll be driving down that mountain when it’s dark out.”
“I won’t. I’ll call you before I leave. How’s that sound?”
“Please do, Holly. You know I worry about you.”
That pulls a faint smile out of me despite how tired I am. “I know. Thanks for the call, Mom. I’ll talk to you soon.”
We hang up, and exhaustion crashes over me like a wave once again.
My limbs feel leaden, my eyes burning from the lack of sleep from the night before.
Without meaning to, I curl up on the couch and grab the throw blanket I’d draped over the back of it and let the storm’s howling wind fill the silence around me.
I don’t mean to drift off, but sleep comes fast and with it, dreams.
At first, they’re soft, warm.
Filled with the kind of memories I don’t usually let myself dwell on too often nowadays.
I’m little again, my mittened hands wrapped tight in my parents’ as they swing me between them on a walk to the park.
The air smells like fresh snow and my mom’s lavender hand cream.
