Page 188 of Unspoken Words
“She is happy. She’s asleep. Maybe I could peel the potatoes?”
“Nup. Already done it!” Chris wiped his hands on a tea towel and then tossed it at my face.
“Since when do you peel potatoes?”
“Since forever.”
“Liar,” I grumbled and looked around for something else to do. “How about I set the table?”
“No. Your father is going to do that, aren’t you, Roger?”
“Roger that,” he called out from the lounge room.
“Ugh! How about dessert? Yes, I’ll make dessert.”
As I was about to set myself to task, Raelene and Curtis entered the room.
“Merry Christmas, everyone. Connor, darling, can you please take this Pavlova and Trifle for me, they’re breaking my arms.”
“Argh!” I groaned and plonked back into my seat.
Raelene shot me a look of concern. “Is everything all right, Ellie?”
Mum gave a dismissive swish of her hand. “Don’t worry about her. She’s whining because she has the most important job of all.”
“What’s that?” I deadpanned. “Keeping this seat warm?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
Comforting hands gripped my shoulders then trailed down my arms, embracing me from behind. “Just relax, baby. Enjoy the festivities.”
I surrendered and leaned against Connor’s arm. “I feel so useless. I want to help.”
“Trust me. You being hereishelping. It’s helping more than you could ever know.”
Sweeping my eyes across the room, I took in how happy everyone seemed. Mum hummed as she turned the roasted vegetables in their trays, Dad positioned cutlery as if the Queen of England was to be our guest, Chris was drying dishes without complaining—he was even smiling, which was remarkably funny—and Raelene and Curtis stood over Christina’s bassinet in the corner of the room, their faces full of awe as they silently cooed, Max proudly waving an Iron Man toy at his sister.
Connor was right. This was my last Christmas—my first with our daughter—and I really needed to stop complaining and just enjoy the moment.
Remembering all the things I’ve loved from Christmas past, a memory pinged into my head and gave me the perfect idea. “I know something I can do,” I said, slowly standing up. “And you can help me do it.”
*
The musclesin Connor’s armsstrained as he moved a cardboard box on top of another. “What are we looking for?”
“A set of quoits,” I explained, coughing as dust billowed into the air around us.
“Maybe you should stand by the garage door, where it’s less dusty.”
I smiled at his cuteness but did as he suggested.
“What are quoits?”
“They’re like little rings made of rope that you toss onto a spike. I know they’re in here somewhere. Mum and Dad don’t throw anything away.”
“And why are we looking for them again?”
“Because when Chris and I were kids, we played with them every Christmas day. Except, if you were the tosser—”
