Page 70 of War on Christmas

“I was eighteen!” It bursts out of me, almost a shout, and I hate myself for it, but she doesn’t even flinch, which almost feels worse.

“You were eighteen,” she agrees calmly. “You were eighteen, and you were already exceeding all my wildest dreams for you. Valedictorian. Captain of the football team. College scholarships. You had your whole life ahead of you, and I was just—” She sighs. “I was your tie to Gary. You had a chance to get out, Jem. To breakfree. I didn’t want to be the thing that kept you tied here. What did I have to offer? I wasn’t even qualified to hold a job. I would have been dead weight. One more responsibility for you to—”

“You’re mymom. We would have made things work. Figured it—”

“You think that’s what I wanted for you? You, who I always loved more than anything? More thananyone?” She cups my face, forcing me to hold her gaze. To see the love shining there. “I could bear a lot. God knows I did over the years with Gary. But I couldn’t bear to be a burden to you. Not when you had so much going for you. You deserved better than that. So, I tried to give it to you. Even if it did break my heart.”

Her answer is so fucked up it makes me want to scream. Scream for what those years with Gary did to her self-esteem. Scream that he made her feel so low about herself, so unworthy, that she thought I was better off without her. Scream for all the time we lost. For all the rejection I felt. The loneliness.

But the bigger message isn’t lost on me.

She loves me. She loved me when I was eighteen and she thought—however wrong she was—that she was doing me a favor by sending me off on my own. She loved me when I was twenty-four and she wanted me to be free, unencumbered, as I started my life and career in Chicago.

And she loves me now.

She may have not chosen to be in my life, but in her mind, she had always, always chosen me.

A fresh wave of tears hits—Fuck me. I blame the lack of sleep.—and I lean forward to bury my eyes into the heels of my hands, pressing hard. Her hand is on my back again, rubbing up and down my spine, and when I’ve collected myself, I lean back with a sniff, rubbing the snot-streaked sleeve of my sweater over my nose. Christ, I need a shower and a change of clothes. I turn my head to look at her, and she looks back.

“I’m still angry at you,” I say with a sniff, and she nods. “I get that you don’t feel great about yourself. I was here all those years. I know how he treated you. How he talked to you.” If my suspicions are right, Gary had been directly in my mom’s ear, telling her all the ways she’d be a hardship to me. How she’d slow me down. Not only did he love to make her feel small—like it somehow made him big—but he was terrified of her leaving him. “ButMom…” I shake my head. “It had always beenus. You and me. And then you were justgoneand I was alone—”

“I’m so sorry, Jem.” A tear trails down her cheek, but she brushes it away. She takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders. “I wish I could take it back, but I can’t. It’s done. I want to move forward with you—to be in your life again—but I understand if you just can’t. I knew it might—”

“I want to try, too.” I pause for a second, letting myselffeelthe words. And they feel…right. “I’m still angry and I’m still hurt, and I really think you need to find a counselor.” Mom watches my face, nodding along as I talk. “And I want to figure out a way to be in each other’s lives. Even if it takes some time.” I blow out a breath. “And Mom?”

“Yeah?” she sniffs, rubbing at her nose.

“I love you, too.”

Forty-Three

FREYA

I’mhuddledonthecouch, surrounded by a small mountain of snotty tissues and an empty bottle of cheap red wine. No wineglass. I did theHope & Stardust“Sorry-Ass Broken Heart Bath” only to change into the same dirty T-shirt I’d put on yesterday. So, the mascara streaking my face has been scrubbed clean, but I still look like shit. My hair is limp, my eyes swollen and bloodshot, my bottom lip trembling. Season two ofChilling Adventures of Sabrinais just starting, right along with round 273 of me crying.

I am a hot fucking mess.

Joe’s in-laws, who’d been renting my apartment, handled the change in plans well, graciously accepting Leo’s offer to spend the last few days of their visit at his place down the block. Honestly? They probably felt like they were trading up. Leo’s place is a couple decades younger, and his style is more Swedish minimalism than witchy. The wife was polite as she handed over my keys, but I saw her peek over her shoulder at Frida as if she felt more haunted than encouraged by the painting’s heavy stare.

Leo had been uncharacteristically quiet on the ride home, stealing quick, side-eye glances at me as he drove. I knew he wanted to give me a full inquisition, but I’m sure I looked too pathetic to harass with questions like “Was it straight? Or curved?” and “Oral. Does hereallyenjoy it? Or is he just putting in his time?”

He offered to stay with me, but I sent him back to Todd. I didn’t want them to miss any more holiday time together, and I only made it until the door slammed shut behind him before the tears started.

I wanted to be alone.

Utterly, totally alone. A-L-O-N-E. All by my freaking self.

“Alone” is my new personal philosophy. It’s now my creed, my motto, my way of life.

Because clearly, I amnotcut out for committed relationships. Not with humans, anyway. (Hecate can stay.)

Because if I were a relationship type of person, this wouldn’t hurt so much. Right? If I were a relationship person, I could fall in love with Jeremy without feeling like my entire universe would be pushed off its axis if he decides that I’m “too much.” If I were a relationship person, I’d feel resilient and strong, ready to face the slings and arrows of dating and beyond.

But the more I hurt, the more I think, “Thank the gods I left now.” Because if it hurts this bad now—when it’s been less than two weeks—how on earth would I handle it in another month? A year? Adecadefrom now?

I couldn’t.

Hence, my new mission statement: Freya Estelle Nilsen shall remain alone. Forever.

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