Chapter twenty-two
Antonia
The turkey is cold on my tongue. I forgot to eat. My Christmas tradition. Graveside. Battery-operated fairy lights. A meal for one.
Mikey’s gift sits at the base of the headstone. Wrapped, ready to open. I know what it is. It’s the same one I get him every holiday. A Christmas bauble with the date. I have one for every year missed.
They don’t hang on a tree.
They never have.
They’re stored safely in a box. I lean down, pulling the book from my bag. It’s worn. An old tale I was read as a child. The pages dog-eared, some ripped. But I love it.
Every year, I bring it here and read it out loud. Silly maybe, but it’s good to pretend he can hear. He’d be grown now. A young man. I’d like to think he’d still humor me and listen. So, I read.Read and pretend that he’s here, listening, smiling, calling me Mum.
I saw Ben with his son. As I sat with mine.
His boy is breathing and full of life.
They didn’t see me. Not at first. I watched until Ben turned around. Until he found me across the graves. Until he understood.
I didn’t wait then.
The second he looked away, I stood.
I broke free, needing space from being seen.
I’m not sure what’s worse—grief or being witnessed living it.
The apartment is quiet, no different from how it is every other day. The building, however, is full of festive cheer. My walk through the corridors became an obstacle course, dodging half-drunk family members and swinging tinsel. I muttered Merry Christmas to each of them and kept walking.
Closing the door behind me was even more of a relief than it usually is. A barrier between me and the ‘what could have been’.
The winter frost clings to my coat, and I throw it over the nearest radiator. I pull my chilled feet from the pink rubber, removing my socks, one damp, too. There’s a hole in the sole of my left boot. I hadn’t noticed until the cold crept in.
The box sits on the coffee table where I left it, waiting patiently for its new addition. I sit down with the new present in hand and gently unwrap it. This year, I chose a simple star with the year inscribed across white porcelain. It snuggles in perfectly next to the snowman from last year.
I close the lid before I look any further. Delving into my past rarely brings closure, only unanswered hope and ‘what ifs’. So, I seal it tight until next year.
Mikey’s gift is one of only two in my home.
Clara buys me something every year. Nothing extravagant. Just enough to remind me that someone thought of me.
The little pink bag with a snowflake sits on the kitchen counter where I left it last night. I’ll open it later. Just now isn’t the time for new things.
My laptop sits ready on the dining table. It was always my plan. Visit Mikey, pretend Christmas means something, then back to work. I grab a glass of wine from the fridge and take my seat.
The screen glows, my inbox already brimming over with notifications. Payments, clinical trials, responses from people as alone as I am. This is our Christmas, lost in industry not mince pies.
Julian finished for the holidays yesterday. It had been a struggle extricating him from the office. He’d wanted to talk. Discuss strategy. I told him it could wait. He should go and enjoy time with his wife and kids.
He’d left, muttering something under his breath.
I didn’t have the energy to react.
He may have left when I insisted. It didn’t mean he stopped working. Four emails. All sent between last night and this morning. Three with recent online articles, the positive press engineered by Ben is waning. The protesters are ramping up. This one mentions legal battles and seeking compensation.
In the past, the odd lawyer’s letter has dropped on our doormat that my legal team will rectify within days. But this article is different. It’s personal. Talking about me. My role at Opengate and whether I can personally be held accountable for someone’s death.