He laughs out loud then, and we all make our way to the living room so Christmas can officially begin.
Savannah passes out mugs of steaming hot chocolate. Each one topped with a mountain of whipped cream and marshmallows.
“What happened to the coffee?” I mutter.
“This is more festive.”
My daughter ignores me as she rips shiny red paper from the first gift she finds with her name on it. I stare at my heart attack in a mug. Amy hands me a cookie in the shape of Santa Claus, the icing broken at the edge.
Voices rise, excitement building with every tear of paper.
Liam squeals when his new Arsenal soccer jersey appears. Ollie finds the same, and they both pull them on, bouncing over the floor like kangaroos. I clear my throat, then hold out an envelope for each of them. They pluck them from my fingers.
“Open them together,” I say. That starts the race.
“Dad!” Both my sons bound toward me. Almost full-grown arms wrapping around my neck.
“I’m just glad you support the same team.”
Season tickets.
Two of them.
North London.
Every other Saturday.
Something they can do together. I’d considered getting one for myself, but soccer is their thing. And in their mid-teens, they’re now old enough to attend on their own. My boys grin. I’m just thankful I’m here to see it. Not everyone gets this much time.
***
The leftover turkey is being put away. There’s enough for sandwiches for days. Amy stacks the plates in the dishwasher as I dry the glasses.
“You going later?” she asks.
“Yeah, I haven’t visited in a few weeks.”
I know what she’s talking about. Bex.
“Good.”
“Good, I’m going, or good, it’s been a few weeks?”
She closes the dishwasher door, turning to face me, her expression sad but sincere.
“Good that you’re not defining yourself by grief anymore,” she says quietly. “Good that your life is moving forward. She’d hate you to stop living. I know you love her. And she always knew too.”
We stand silent, my cloth drying the same glass until it squeaks.
“You can visit.” Amy blinks just once, a tear trailing down her cheek. “But you can’t live in a graveyard.”
Liam chooses this moment to walk in and obviously catches the end of her sentence.
“Are you going to visit Mum?” I nod. “I’m coming too.”
In the past, I’d have stopped him. Told him I would take him another time. My time with Bex used to be my own. It was when I processed life, when I asked a gravestone for direction. Today, it feels like paying my respects to the woman I loved and lost.
He walks over to the kitchen cupboard and pulls out the small picnic basket. I watch my son pack the bottle of Bucks Fizz, three glasses, and a handful of nibbles. This is how predictable I’ve become: my son knows what I’ll do on one specific day of the year. Once satisfied, he places the hamper on the island and smiles.