Page 40 of Krampus Kruk
You solve problems most can’t.
You are a bad bitch.
I exhale slowly, letting it sink in. I’m not masking today. I’m going back to Chicago.
After drying off, I cross the hall to my childhood bedroom. It’s changed since I lived here, but there are remnants—trophies and medals line one of the walls. I pause at the robotics trophy. My favorite. My first exposure to coding. Probably the smartest extracurricular I ever signed up for.
That trophy signifies so much. All the other kids had dads doing half the coding at home, guiding them with their engineering degrees. My stepdad was useless. All I had was me, the internet, and the determination to prove I was smarter than all the boys.
I was. I still am. Yet, I fucking suck at real life outside work.
I throw my hair into a messy bun and pull on leggings and a long-sleeve shirt before I reach for the festive sweater I’d planned to wear for today. It’s less tacky than yesterday’s, with an embroidered Christmas motif throughout.
I’m not in the Christmas spirit.
I hesitate. Am I really skipping family Christmas?
It feels like something I can’t undo. I’ve talked about going no contact with my family more than once in therapy. I have no issue never speaking to Ed or his sons ever again, but my mom … I shake my head.
My grandparents would be so pissed at me if I left right now.So would my mom, but I would feel guilty about upsetting my grandparents today. They’re more like parents than her. I’d never go no contact with them. Ever since my stepdad and his sons moved in, I’ve spent as much time at my grandparents’ house as possible.
If I leave now, that’s the end of my relationship with my mom.
My gaze drifts to the beach painting above the bed. My dad painted it for her as a way to remember our big family road trip to California. I was twelve, and that was my last magical Christmas. I mean, I stopped believing in Santa when I was eight, but it was the last Christmas that felt like a movie.
My mom got rid of Dad’s art and everything of his so fast after he passed. She just erased him and started over with my stepdad Ed, moved my stepbrothers into his art studio and all. She was all in on Ed and his kids while I just needed someone, anyone.
Should I take the painting with me?
I fought to keep it. We were happy once, before Dad got sick. The painting is a reminder of that. My life hasn’t always been awful.
Taking it seems too final. I’m not ready to fully walk out of the house and never see them again. But if I stay, it will be a rerun of yesterday, of what led me to leave the house and drive to a bar … Krampus.
I hastily pack my bag and sling it over my shoulder. I stare at the beach scene again, thinking of how my dad and I used topaint together. I reach for it, putting it under my shoulder, and head for the living room.
I’m done with this place, with these people.
My stepdad sits on the couch, watching golf, coffee in hand. He looks older today—probably because he’s nothing like Krampus. He’ll be on the couch for the rest of the day. If anyone gives him a hard time about it, he’ll say he’s resting his hip, which he refuses to get replaced. The Christmas tree glows in the corner, presents spilling out beneath it. My mom’s in the kitchen, hair already done, full makeup on, ready to put on a show. I assume my stepbrothers are still sleeping.
“So,” I say, loud enough for both of them to hear, “I’m gonna head back.”
Mom presses her fingers into her temples. “I … I don’t know why you always have to be so dramatic.”
I shrug and step into the kitchen, headed for the side door.
“Morgan, don’t go,” she says quietly as I pass her. Her voice cracks just enough to make me pause.
“I can’t fake a smile today,” I say softly and reach for the door handle.
“Why are you taking that with you?” she asks.
Then, the doorbell rings.
It’s way too early for my grandparents.
“Are we expecting a delivery?” my stepdad calls from the couch.
“No,” Mom replies.
