A Christmas Delight

27. Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-seven

Maisie

N ina cast me out of the shop. I’m being sent home like a sick third grader. I’ve fallen asleep in the kitchen making donuts. I don’t remember much, more proof that I’m sleep deprived. I have barely slept in three days, since Joel and I broke up. I try, but I keep tossing and turning, having weird dreams when I finally doze off. Nina finally got fed up with me and kicked me out, saying we needed to both be ready for another evening at the fair tonight. The only reason I agreed to go home and try to take a nap is because I don’t want to let her down and ruin everything.

A familiar noise reaches my ears as my house comes into view. My heart misses a beat. It’s the sound of a circular saw. Joel’s garage door is open. He’s in there, working out of my sight, but already too close for comfort. If I wanted, I could go in there and talk to him. Try to make him understand he got everything wrong.

I stop walking, snow clinging to my boots. My outside decorations look dull in the daylight, and they will look even worse tonight.

This is the worst Christmas.

Christmas is less than a week away. I wanted to do something nice for myself. Put up decorations, have a real tree, snuggle close to the fire, and knit some scarves. Instead, I end up heartbroken, having to babysit my mother—who still refuses to talk to Frank—and with decorations that hide in the shadows at night. I might put them away when I have a day off. One less thing to worry about.

The circular saw stops, snapping me out of my thoughts. I hurry through my front yard and burst inside my house, heart beating. My eyes burn by the time I shut the door behind me.

Mom crosses the hallway and stops to look at me. “You’re home early.”

“Yeah. I couldn’t sleep last night. I need to rest a little.”

She studies me for a moment. “Everything okay?”

My back is still pressed against the door as though I’m hiding. I take my jacket and beanie off and hang them. “Sure. How was your morning?”

She goes into the kitchen, and I follow her there to get some water.

“Well, you know,” She shrugs and doesn’t add anything.

I drink from my glass and put it down on the counter. “I know I haven’t been very present. With the fair and all. I’ll have more free time after that.”

She stands in front of the stove, turning it on to boil some water in the kettle. “I doubt that will change anything.”

“What do you mean?”

She sighs loudly and looks up as though looking for her words. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“Clearly, it’s not.”

“It’s just that you have your life and your work and your friends, and when you’re here it’s your music and your TV shows, and I feel like I’m an outsider. You don’t make me a part of your world.”

Guilt instantly settles in again. “Well, I have to work. And I haven’t been watching TV too much since you’re here. We did watch a movie or two together.”

“It feels like I’m only here to cook and clean.”

I can’t deal with that right now, seriously. But still, I push through, keeping my voice even. “I appreciate what you’re doing, but you don’t need to do all that.”

“Well, you know I can’t just sit around and do nothing. I need to get busy.”

“Then get busy with something else,” I snap.

She spins around, her jaw dropping. “No need to get so upset.”

My throat itches. “I am upset. I’m tired of feeling like I’m responsible for people’s feelings. Like it’s up to me to make other people feel good and valued and seen. What about me? Don’t I have value? Don’t I deserve to think about myself? I have been working so hard on getting this business, this house, doing the fair…” A sob escapes me. “I just wanted a nice, quiet Christmas. Drama-free. And I got the exact opposite.”

Mom stares at me, for once speechless, at least for a few seconds. “Oh, so it’s my fault? I suppose I’m the cause of all your problems.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No? I wasn’t doing anything, and suddenly you come in and start yelling at me.”

I take a deep breath to calm my nerves, though I wasn’t yelling to begin with. I’m done playing this game with her. “Mom, I love you.”

She does a double take. This isn’t what she was expecting.

“I’m sorry you’re having problems at home. And obviously, I’ll always be here if you need something, but coming here without a warning and then criticizing everything I do isn’t okay. It hurts me. It makes me feel like I’m not good enough for you. I just wish you were proud of me.”

“I never said—”

“It doesn’t matter whether you agree with me or not. These are my feelings.” I pause, bracing myself for what I’m about to say. “You need to go home, Mom.”

She blinks at me.

“We clearly don’t get along,” I say. “I know it’s hard for you, what happened with Frank, but you need to work it out. I don’t want to be involved anymore.”

I thought I’d feel better saying those things, but the look on her face, the way her eyes darken and mist over, makes me want to crawl to her and apologize. But no. I won’t.

“After all I did for you,” she says. “I always did my best, and that’s how you’re thanking me? By throwing me out?”

I force a deep breath into my lungs. “You don’t have to leave now. And I am grateful for what you do, Mom, but I feel constantly judged about the things I do or like.”

“Well, I feel judged now.”

“Look, my intention isn’t to hurt you. It’s never to hurt you. I always walk on eggshells around you because I’m scared to upset you, but no matter what I do it’s never good enough.”

A scoff escapes her. “Trust me, Maisie, I do the same. I’m always careful about the things I tell you because you always get upset.”

“I literally never get upset. I always try to listen to what you have to say, and I always stay calm. But whenever I try to talk to you, you start crying.”

“You know I’m sensitive, I can’t help it.”

“That’s not my problem!” I yell, really yell this time, then take a steadying inhale to slow the beating of my heart. “Your feelings aren’t my problem. I am responsible for the things I say or do, but I’m not responsible for the way you react to those things, so stop blaming me for the way you feel.”

Mom stares at me, her eyes shimmering, then tightens her lips, and turns away.

“I don’t think you realize how much that hurts me. But fine. If you want me out, I’ll leave.” She leaves the kitchen and grabs her coat and her purse.

I hate this. All of it. “I said you don’t have to leave right this second.”

“I need some air. I’ll come back after you leave for work, that way you won’t have to see me when I pack my bags.” She opens the door and pauses, glancing back at me. “Sorry for not being the perfect mother.”

A wave of icy air slaps my face before she slams the door close behind her.