So basically, I was hoping for some bad weather and flight delays so I could enjoy my holidays in peace—you know, after I opened the letter from Roger Stanton. This Christmas was fraught with peril. Which was too bad because it was putting a damper on my excitement to give Jonah his gift and to see him and Whitney in the matching pajamas I had bought the three of us. They had dinosaurs in Christmas hats on them and I had planned on us wearing them tomorrow night while living out my tradition of watching every Christmas movie known to man and eating as many sugar cookies as we possibly could. That was, after Jonah’s parents and Eliza left to hang out at the chalet in Carrington Cove.
“I feel sick to my stomach,” I responded to Grandma.
Grandma looked up from the beautiful doll’s head. We had found the perfect sandy brown wig and Grandma had painted the eyes to look just like Whitney’s. “You go over there tomorrow night and show them what you’re made of. You should be proud of your life. You run a business and are a talented, respected artist in this community. And who is the one there for Whitney day in and day out? It’s certainly not her mother,” she was getting fired up. “I’m all for women living their dreams and having careers, but the way she stays away from her child like that, I have no respect for it.” She clutched her paint brush so hard I thought it might snap. “The poor girl didn’t even have any friends until you intervened. Honestly, Jonah bears some of the blame too, but at least he’s trying and is present in her life.”
Jonah wore that blame like a lead cloak. But Whitney was making progress. Her use of contractions was getting better, and she had made a friend at school. A new girl named Persephone who was behind in math and, unfortunately, teased because of her name. Whitney stuck up for her and helped her with math. They were now bosom buddies. And she and Tabitha were still two peas in a pod, especially now since it was Christmas break and Whitney spent entire days at Tabitha’s house, probably planning to rule the world or create a real-life Jurassic Park.
“I’m just hoping I can graciously swallow down the vegan meal his mother and Eliza are preparing and keep my foot out of my mouth.” I cut a piece of thread with my tiny scissors.
Grandma dabbed her brush into the paint with a scowl on her face. “And why are they making dinner and not you and Jonah? You’re the hosts.”
“It’s not my house and it’s not like we’re you know . . .” I mumbled. I was staying away from the M word and all the words associated with it. I was still getting used to girlfriend.
“But you’re his better half.”
That sounded weird, but I guess since it was Facebook official, it was true. “It’s fine. Besides, I have to, you know, wait for a certain letter tomorrow and I never know when it’s going to show up.” Typically, it was always by early afternoon.
Grandma dropped the brush, splattering paint on her smock. She didn’t bother to pick it up. “You’re really opening it?”
Grandpa, walking down the stairs from the loft wearing plaid thermal underwear and a tweed trapper hat, prevented me from answering. He was quite the sight. “It’s about time,” he growled. “I should have tried to find the SOB myself, or insisted your mother show me those damn letters.” Grandpa landed next to Grandma and stood behind her chair, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder.
Grandma’s eyes welled up with tears.
I set the dress down. “Why are you crying?”
Grandma waved her hand in front of her face. “I keep beating myself up that we let this nonsense go on for so long. And . . . I’m worried that tomorrow will change things,” she reluctantly admitted.
I tilted my head. “Change things how?”
Grandpa went and got Grandma a tissue from the kitchen counter before handing it to her. Grandma dabbed her eyes. “I know it’s silly, but I’ve always wondered who you looked like with your strawberry blonde hair and your willowy figure.”
It was true my mom and grandma were shorter and stockier than me. And no one had my hair color. Honestly, I had been staring at Roger’s picture as of late and really looking at his eyes, wondering if mine truly were like his or if I had talked myself into it just because my mom had said he was my dad.
“Tomorrow,” Grandma sniffled, “you may get the answer to that question and very well find out about your other family. You may love them more than us,” she blubbered.
“Grandma.” I stood, walked over to her, and knelt in front of her. Both her and Grandpa stared down at me. “How could I ever love them more than you? They’ve ignored me my entire life. For all we know, Roger Stanton isn’t even my father.”