Chapter 8 - The Christmas I Chose MyselfOn Christmas Eve morning, I woke to sunlight spilling across the pine floorboards.
For the first time since arriving at the lodge, the house was quiet.
No guests were arguing over where to put their coats. No champagne glasses crowded the kitchen island. No one was telling me how fortunate I was to have a home they could use.
I made coffee, opened the curtains, and stood by the window watching snow drift through the trees.
Then I did something I hadn't planned.
I drove into town and bought a small Christmas tree.
The lodge had never needed much decoration. The beams, the stone fireplace, and the windows overlooking the mountains made the place feel festive all by themselves. Still, Dad had always insisted that every Christmas tree needed one ornament that didn't match anything else.
“Otherwise,” he'd told us, “how will you know which tree is yours?”
When Olivia and I were children, we had fought over the same battered wooden star. Dad eventually made two stars out of scraps from his workshop, one for each of us. Mine was slightly crooked, with a tiny split near the top.
I still had it.
I found the star in a box beneath the stairs, wrapped in tissue paper beside the wooden train Dad had made for me. I set it on top of the tree and stepped back.
It leaned to one side.
I smiled despite myself.
“Perfect,” I whispered.
At noon, my mother called.
“I'd like to come by,” she said. “Just for a little while.”
I hesitated.
“Why?”
“To apologize. Properly.”
I looked at the tree.
“You can come at three. But I need you to understand something before you arrive. This isn't a meeting to decide what happens to the lodge. That decision is already made.”
“I understand.”
“And I won't discuss the legal matter without Daniel.”
“I understand that, too.”
When she arrived, she brought a tin of homemade ginger cookies and a small wrapped package. She looked nervous standing on the porch, as though she wasn't sure she had permission to enter the house where she had spent so many holidays with me.
I opened the door wider.
“Come in.”
She glanced at the Christmas tree and began to cry.
“Oh, Becca. Your father would have loved this.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
“He would have complained about the star leaning.”
Mom laughed softly through her tears.
“He'd have fixed it, then moved it crooked again just to annoy us.”
For a few minutes, we talked about Dad. Not about property, money, or Olivia. We remembered how he used to burn the first batch of Christmas cookies because he insisted he could do everything without reading the recipe. We remembered his terrible singing and the way he pretended not to notice when we stole the chocolate from the pantry.
It was the first honest conversation we'd had in years.
Eventually, Mom set the package on the table.
“I know I can't undo what I did,” she said. “But I want you to know that I understand why you don't trust me right now.”
I sat opposite her.
“Why did you believe Olivia instead of asking me?”
She twisted her wedding ring, which she still wore even though Dad had been gone for five years.
“Because she sounded frightened. She told me Jason's business was collapsing, that the children might lose their home, and that you were the only person who could help. I thought if I questioned her, I would be abandoning her when she needed me.”
“And what did you think would happen to me?”
Her eyes filled.
“I didn't think about you enough. I thought you were strong. I thought you could handle being upset, and I thought Olivia couldn't handle another disappointment.”
I looked down at my hands.
That was the sentence I had needed to hear for most of my life.
My strength had become an excuse for other people to neglect me.
“I was strong because I had to be,” I said. “That doesn't mean I never needed you.”
Mom reached across the table, but stopped before touching me.
“I know.”
“No, I don't think you did. You saw me managing my own problems and assumed I didn't have any. You saw Olivia crying and assumed her problems were more important.”
She nodded slowly.
“I was wrong.”
It wasn't a dramatic apology. There was no sudden embrace or promise that everything would return to normal. But she didn't defend herself, and she didn't ask me to forgive her before I was ready.
That mattered.
She stayed until dusk, helping me hang the last ornaments. When she left, she didn't ask for a key.
The following morning, Daniel called with an update. The property remained securely in my name, the proposed arrangement had been stopped, and the relevant records were being reviewed. He was helping my mother organize the financial evidence so she could pursue repayment through appropriate channels.
Jason had agreed to cooperate and was working with an adviser to assess what his business could realistically repay. Olivia had been advised to communicate through her attorney while the matter was resolved.
Nothing was magically fixed. The money hadn't reappeared. My sister hadn't taken responsibility for everything. And my mother and I still had years of habits to unlearn.
But the immediate threat to my home had passed.
I spent Christmas afternoon alone by choice.
I cooked a small roast, made too much gravy, and watched snow collect on the railing. I called a friend from Denver who had promised to check on me, and we laughed about the fact that I had finally bought a Christmas tree after years of claiming the lodge looked better without one.
At sunset, I walked outside with a mug of hot chocolate.
The mountains glowed pink beneath the fading light. The air was so cold it made my lungs ache, and the snow crunched beneath my boots.
I thought about Olivia's words at the party: You have everything.
She had been wrong.
I didn't have everything. I had lost the easy trust I'd once placed in my family. I had learned that love could be used as leverage, that a familiar face could still betray you, and that doing the right thing sometimes meant disappointing people you desperately wanted to please.
But I had my home.
I had my work, my independence, my memories of Dad, and the chance to decide what kind of relationships I wanted from this point forward.
For the first time, that felt like enough.
When I returned inside, I noticed a new message from Olivia.
It contained only three words.
I'm sorry, Becca.
I stared at the screen for a long time.
Then I set the phone down without replying.
May you like
An apology could open a door.
It could not force me to walk through it.
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