Before I could tear into the paper, my phone buzzed.
It was my mother. She never called.
I accepted the call and braced myself for bad news.
“Hello, mother.”
“Sebastian,” she said, her voice soft and floaty.
“Is everything okay?”
She pulled in a breath on the other end of the phone. “I received your gift today and . . .”
I never bought my mother Christmas gifts. Ever. Not since I was a child. She probably felt awkward at having to acknowledge it. “I just saw it and thought you might like it. It’s no big deal,” I said, keen to sweep any awkwardness away.
“It’s wonderful.” Her voice broke as she spoke and a bolt of shock passed down my spine. She was . . . happy?
She cleared her throat. “I can’t believe you remembered the box. It was broken so long ago.”
I pulled in a breath, determined to be honest with her. There had been too many unspoken words between us. “It was the only time I’d ever seen you cry.”
“Yes, I was very upset. I would play it last thing at night before I went to sleep. It reminded me of you when you were with Granny.”
The way she said it proved to me that what Granny had revealed was true. My mother had missed me. She hadn’t sent me to Granny’s because she didn’t want me around, but because she’d wanted me to be happy. She’d wanted me to have the childhood she remembered.
“Granny said I used to play the tune on the piano.”
She laughed. “Over and over and over. But I loved it. And I missed it when you were gone. I missed you. And when it broke, it was like I’d lost you completely. It may seem like just a music box but it’s so much more. And now you giving me this one—it’s almost exactly the same—and at Christmas . . . It’s made this Christmas into the best Christmas ever, Sebastian.”
I grunted. “Well, it’s a low bar.”
Both of us were silent for a few beats.
“I never understood why you stopped celebrating after your gap year. Growing up in Snowsly, I’d always loved Christmas so much. I wanted to pass that joy down to you, but somehow I managed to do the opposite. Was it because you didn’t like the commerciality of it, or was it too childish?”
Did she really not know?
“You and dad were always arguing,” I said.
“But not at Christmas. Even after the divorce, we had an agreement that we never argued over Christmas. We had a very strict rule. And that’s why I always felt okay keeping you home for the festive season.”
Was she high or was I losing it? Our memories were diametrically opposed. I thought back to those Christmases. The terse words while we opened stockings. The way they’d try not to look at each other while they discussed what Christmas film we were going to watch. The three of us around the dining table wearing paper hats, while my mum and dad tried not to let their pasted-on smiles slip. My jaw clenched and my shoulders inched higher just thinking about those times.
Maybe they hadn’t been arguing, but because they’d been trying so hard not to, it just felt like they may as well have been at each other’s throats.
“I hate to tell you mum, but the tension could be sliced with a spoon. I swear, I developed gray hairs spending Christmas with you and dad.”
“Really? I’m so sorry. I tried so hard to make it special. Is that why you don’t celebrate?”
“Partly,” I said, only partly telling her the truth. Unbeknownst to me, she’d obviously been trying to create the Snowsly Christmas magic. She’d had good intentions. I didn’t need to devastate her by telling her that every year, I’d listened to her talk excitedly about Christmas and every year, I thought things would be different. That Christmas would be just as magical as she had described. And every year, my stomach churned with tar at the reality of the situation.
“How come we never went to Snowsly for Christmas if you loved it so much as a child?”
“Your father hated being out of the city. You know what he was like.”
That made sense. He’d been a creature of habit. Liked his routine and home comforts.
“And I didn’t want to deny him a Christmas with his son.”
I glanced out of the window at the dark hedgerows. How sad that two people who wanted their son to be happy, managed to achieve the exact opposite.
“What about now? You never come over to Snowsly at Christmas now.”
“Granny’s busy. And you’re not there. It feels like it wouldn’t be the same as I remembered. I’d rather keep the great memories as wonderful as they are and not ruin them.”
My heart squeezed in my chest.
“Snowsly is still a very special place at Christmas,” I said, a reel of memories of the last few weeks whirring through my brain. “I’ve been helping Granny with the market. It’s really quite . . .” Magical was the word that sprung to mind, but I didn’t believe in magic. Despite the disasters that had seemed to strike on an almost-daily basis, we kept our spirits up and, in the end, the market and the village were better for surviving them. Everyone pulled together and created a Christmas team—a family—that could be counted on in any situation.