'Tis The Season

“What? Three grandchildren aren’t enough for you, Mum?” Thomas calls.

“No,” Mum responds without missing a beat, and I laugh.

“See what I’ve been putting up with for all these years?” my father asks.

“It keeps you young, Reginald.” Mum’s sassy response reminds me of why I’m still single. If I can’t grow into that, I’m wasting my time. My last relationship failed because she didn’t want to wait for the white dress and babies. I wasn’t naïve enough to think I could do all of that and focus on my practice. I want to be a present parent. She’s happily married now, and I don’t begrudge her the life she’s built for herself. I just want to find my happy ending, too.

“Guys, come say hello to your Uncle James.”

The pitter-patter of feet over the carpet makes me laugh. Cherub faces press together as they battle for screen time. The chorus of, “Hi, Uncle James,” melts my heart. Not seeing them is the biggest drawback to remaining in America. Dad relocated us when we were in our teens for a once in a lifetime promotion and remained until he retired.

“Hello, my favorite nieces and nephews. Are you keeping everyone on their toes?”

The resounding, “Yes!” is accompanied by snickers and groans from the adults. I spend thirty minutes talking to them before saying good-bye, and I leave the office, feeling lighter and slightly melancholy.

AS I PULL INTO THE drugstore for last-minute snacks, the snow is coming down in large flakes that are sticking. Raising my hood, I lean into the wind, whipping and moaning like the ghost of Christmas past, and enter the blessedly warm safety of the store. Stomping my boots on the rubber mat at the entrance, I take down my hood and walk to the alcohol section. Tonight, I’ll make mulled wine, light the fireplace, and indulge in the biscuits and Jammie Dodgers my mother frequently sends me. A little taste of home will chase away the holiday blues in no time. Grabbing a mini cart, I take my time perusing the shelves. I’m not opposed

to a little retail therapy, and drug stores have surprisingly thoughtful and useful gifts.

I place a few bottles of red wine into the cart. It’s important to start with the essentials.

“Stop.” A hushed whisper draws my attention from the cornucopia of crisp bags I’d been trying to decide between

“No. You’re being ridiculous. We need to go home.”

“And leave Monty to fend for himself? No. This is all your fault anyway.”

The male voice guffaws. It’s embarrassing to hear the spat. I try to tune them out, but their volume increases.

“How? You were the one who was distracted.”

“Yes, by you showing up, uninvited might I add, and arguing with me.”

“I’m sorry if the thought of my pregnant fiancée sitting alone on Christmas Eve bothered me.”

“Ex ... and I was exactly where I wanted to be.”

The sound of feet scuffling against the ground makes me tense. Is he putting his hands on her? I tense. I’ve seen the effects of domestic violence on friends. When we turn a blind eye, we’re all to blame. I push my cart forward, positioning myself in an aisle where I can see them from a distance. The blond brute towers over the smaller woman with inky black hair spilling out from underneath her pale pink cap. The white and pink pom-pom on the top makes me smile.

“Stop this.” The man grabs her wrist and spins her to face them.

She places her hands on his chest and steps back. “Let go of me.”

“Not until you stop this foolishness. The storm is kicking up, and you need to be at home.”

“With you, right?”

“Clearly, you can’t take care of yourself. I mean, look at where we are now. How are you going to raise a baby alone if you can’t even handle—”

Her hand moves so fast I can barely track it. Smack. Her bare palm meets his cheek. His head snaps back, and he blinks. His eyes darken, and he tightens his grip. She winces, and I make my move.

“Is there a problem here?” I force my way in between the two of them, and she twists her wrist and stiffens her hand, causing his hold to break.

“Excuse me?” the man asks.

“The lady made it clear she didn’t want to leave with you, and you’ve pushed the issue.”

“Listen, mate,” he mocks my accent, “you should mind your business. We’re fine.”