Father Christmas

nine

Finn

Astrid’salreadyinthe living room nursing a cup of cocoa when I get back from running errands.

“Morning, baby.” I kiss her forehead. It’s nice to see her wearing a tee shirt that actually fits instead of an oversized sweater. I don’t have to squint too hard to see her bump. “How’d you sleep?”

A pink glow creeps into her cheeks. “Good, thanks. You?”

There’s no hiding the smile that pulls unevenly at my lips.

“I can think of one thing that would’ve made it better.” The answer, of course: falling asleep beside you.

Terry’s boys come careering into the living room in a flurry of thunder and flying limbs.

“I’m going to get there first,” Ryan yells.

“No, me,” says Dev.

“You guys, slow down.” Astrid smiles and shakes her head. Suddenly, I can see the kind of mom she’s gonna be. Firm, but loving. Fun, yet fair.

Dory steps into the doorway with two heaping plates of food in her hands.

“Boys,” she says. “Leave those presents alone and come eat your breakfast.” She turns to Astrid and me. “You’re both up early.”

“Of course we are. It’s Christmas.” I shepherd Terry’s boys into the dining room where Elaine is busy arranging the centerpiece. Our morning greeting is stiff, but cordial.

After a hearty breakfast of pancakes, eggs, and sausage, we all return to the living room to commence the opening of presents. I grab a spot on the couch beside Astrid, between Dory and Leena, while Elaine, Terry, and Pavan make themselves comfortable on the carpet. The boys circle the tree, planning their attack.

“I can’t thank you both enough for getting us a real tree,” Dory says.

Astrid reaches across my lap to squeeze Dory’s hand. “You’re very welcome, Gran.”

“All right,” Terry says. “Let’s do this. Boys, you’re both playing Santa this year. I want you each to hand out a present before you open one yourselves.”

Ryan groans, but does as he’s told, picking up a long, flat box with a pink bow.

“This one’s for Leena,” Ryan says. “From Astrid.”

“Ooh, gimme.” Leena accepts the wrapped package and immediately assaults it, unveiling a soft pink sweater and gemstone earrings. She folds her arms around her cousin. “Bae, I love it! Thank you.”

“I can’t wait to see them on you,” Astrid says.

Dev lifts a box that’s half the size of his ten-year-old frame and shuffles it over to where I’m sitting. “It says it’s for you, from Astrid.”

“Thanks, man.” I take the box off his hands and shake it gently, shooting Astrid a curious glance. “What could this be?”

She shrugs. “You’ll have to open it and see.”

I tear the paper, exposing a picture of what appears to be some kind of countertop cooking appliance. I turn the box over to read the description.

“Whoa,” I say. “You got me an ice-cream maker.”

“I know you don’t cook much, and you’re not a baker. But ice cream isn’t really either.” She bites her lip. “Do you like it?”

For a split second, I’m transported back to that night in September, when her lips tasted like vanilla ice cream. I kiss the corner of her mouth. “I love it. Thank you, baby.”

After watching the boys decimate a few of their own presents, Terry tells them to hand out some more.