Page 116 of The Unhinged Christmas of a Cat Lady
I glance over at the tangle of wrapping paper and rogue gift tags on the carpet. “Come on, love,” I say to SJ. “Let’s get your presents upstairs before someone breaks a hip.”
He nods, gathering his skateboard under one arm and a pile of smaller boxes under the other.
As we head up the stairs, he says, “Can we give Twinklesocks and Thor their presents now?”
I smile. “Absolutely. Christmas is for everyone.”
He speeds up with renewed purpose, calling, “They’ve been very good since we got them!”
“Thor ate someone’s dinner yesterday. And Twinklesocks is a constant jail breaker.”
“They are trying.”
We reach the guest room, and the moment I open the door, Twinklesocks gives me a look like we’re late for an appointment. Thor stretches luxuriously on the duvet, then flops onto his side as if he’s not imprisoned but simply above it all.
SJ pulls two tiny stockings out of my suitcase. Each stocking is barely the size of my hand, stitched with glittery thread and crammed full of little cat toys—jingly mice, feather things, and what Ihopeis a catnip fish and not a novelty bath bomb.
We present them like royal offerings.
Thor pounces immediately, dragging one of the mice under the bed like he’s hunted it himself. Twinklesocks sniffs hers with suspicion, then daintily pats a springy ball off the edge of the mattress.
SJ grins, delighted. “They love them.”
“They’re not repulsed. That’s high praise, coming from Twinklesocks.”
I watch them both for a second—my son, my chaos gremlins, the tiny stockings—and for a brief moment, it all feels strangely peaceful.
Even if there’s a very expensive necklace in my hand and a growing weight in my chest that hasn’t yet worked out what to do with itself.
While Thor murders a feather on a string and Twinklesocks glares at a festive jingle ball like it’s offended her ancestors, I glance at SJ, who’s now sitting cross-legged on the bed, fiddling with the empty stocking.
I clear my throat lightly. “You do know, sweetheart… me being here doesn’t mean I’m getting back together with your dad.”
He nods without looking up. “I know.”
I wait a beat, watching him, the way his fingers twist the ribbon on one of the toys.
Then, after a pause, he says, quiet but clear, “I’m not sure I want you to.”
That takes me by surprise.
I sit beside him. “No?”
He shakes his head slowly. “I like you in Kent. You’re funny and chaotic. You don’t make me iron napkins or do everything with matching cutlery.”
A little laugh escapes me. “You never told me you noticed that.”
He shrugs. “It’s just different. You’re different. In a good way.”
I wait, because I can tell there’s more.
“And here,” he goes on, voice dipping, “you’re not like that. You’re quieter. You say sorry more. Yesterday, you let Grandma say that weird word about your weight and you didn’t even say anything.”
My chest tightens. “I didn’t think you heard that.”
He shrugs again. “I did.”
I look at him—my eight-year-old, who somehow always seems two steps ahead of me when I’m busy playing catch-up with myself.
