Chapter 23 - The Invitation List
By November, I had a plan.
Christmas at my house.
Not enormous.
Not performative.
No obligation invitations.
Nathan.
Claire.
Lily.
Emma.
Sophie.
Rachel, if she was not with family until later.
Priya.
A few friends.
I hesitated over Grant.
Not because I wanted him back.
Because the girls would split the day between adults, and inviting him would make logistics easier.
Then I asked myself a simpler question.
Did I want him there?
The answer was not yet.
So I did not invite him.
That was the beauty of boundaries when stripped of punishment.
They did not require anger.
I told Nathan.
He nodded.
“No explanation needed.”
“Thank you.”
“Grant will understand.”
He did.
He texted:
Nathan told me your plans. I hope it’s a great day. I’ll get the girls Christmas morning, then drop them off.
No guilt.
No manipulation.
I replied:
Thank you.
Linda would remain in Providence.
She sent the girls gifts through Nathan.
No contact with me.
That boundary held too.
The house changed as Christmas approached.
Garland.
Candles.
A tree by the front window.
For the first time since Dad died, I used his old ornaments.
A wooden cardinal.
A crooked ceramic star I made in fourth grade.
A silver bell engraved with 1997.
I found Lily’s glitter ornament and hung it near the center.
AUNT EMILY.
Not elegant.
Perfect.
One Saturday, Sophie joined me Christmas shopping.
We entered the department store.
The same one.
I had been there in May, but winter changed it back.
Fake snow.
Music.
Red bows.
Then I saw them.
Matching Christmas shirts.
Not the exact design.
Close enough.
My body stopped before my mind did.
Sophie noticed.
“You okay?”
I looked at the shirts.
For a second, the store disappeared.
Grant’s silence.
Linda’s laugh.
We did Christmas yesterday.
It was better without you.
Then the memory released me.
“I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
I walked closer.
This year’s shirts were green with tiny gold reindeer.
Sophie held one up.
“These are aggressively ugly.”
“They’re supposed to be.”
“Are they?”
“Yes.”
“Are you inventing rules?”
“Absolutely.”
Lily and Emma would love them.
I checked sizes.
Two children.
Nathan.
Claire.
Me.
Then I stopped.
Five.
Last year, I had held six shirts.
One for Grant.
My hand hovered over the men’s rack.
Then I smiled.
I did not need to replace the sixth person.
Healing was not about filling empty positions as quickly as possible.
I placed five shirts in the cart.
Sophie looked down.
“Am I not matching?”
“You mocked them.”
“I made a critical observation.”
“You called them aggressively ugly.”
“I can contain multitudes.”
I laughed.
“Fine.”
Six shirts.
Different six.
Not replacement.
Choice.
Then I added one for Rachel.
Seven.
Priya.
Eight.
Sophie stared.
“This is becoming a cult.”
“Keep insulting the shirts and you’re out.”
She clutched hers protectively.
“Family is apparently conditional.”
I froze.
She immediately realized what she had said.
“Oh God, Em. I didn’t mean—”
I started laughing.
Hard.
So hard I had to hold the cart.
Sophie joined me.
People stared.
I did not care.
The sentence no longer hurt enough to own the room.
At checkout, the cashier folded the shirts.
“All matching?”
“Yes.”
“Big family?”
I paused.
Then answered.
“Something like that.”
Outside, snow had begun falling lightly.
Sophie carried one bag.
I carried another.
My phone buzzed.
Grant.
A photograph.
He was standing beside a tiny Christmas tree in his apartment.
Maya was not visible.
No need.
The tree leaned badly to one side.
His message read:
Remember how you always said I couldn’t pick a straight tree? Evidence attached.
I smiled.
Then replied:
Confirmed. Still terrible.
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
No deeper conversation.
Good.
I slipped the phone into my coat.
Sophie looked at me.
“Grant?”
“Yes.”
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
This time, the answer required no effort.
On the drive home, the bags rustled in the back seat.
Matching shirts.
A year earlier, I bought them because I wanted proof I belonged to Grant’s family.
Now I had bought them because I already knew who belonged in my life.
There was a difference.
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A massive one.
And Christmas morning was almost here.
