At 3:45 on Christmas afternoon, after I had spent two days cooking dinner for my son and daughter-in-law, my doorbell finally rang. It wasn’t them. A courier handed me a manila envelope in Lauren’s handwriting: “We decided to spend Christmas at my mom’s house this year. Last minute change. Hope you understand.” My husband had been gone only nine months. By sunrise the next morning, I found another envelope hidden outside in Richard’s handwriting, and the message inside sent me straight to the desk he had told me not to touch.

Lauren was difficult, but families adjusted.

They were under pressure.

Young people had different priorities.

They meant well.

Next month would be better.

Next holiday.

Next year.

Harris closed the folder.

“Richard did not want you frightened about money.”

“He wanted me protected from my own son.”

“Yes.”

Hearing it stated so plainly made something in me go quiet.

I left the office carrying the black folder against my chest.

By the time I reached home, dusk had settled over the neighborhood.

A dark SUV was parked across the street.

David’s.

He climbed out when I pulled into the driveway.

“Mom.”

I shut my car door.

“What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.”

He had his hands buried in his coat pockets.

Lauren remained in the passenger seat.

I walked toward the porch.

David followed.

“About Christmas?” I asked.

“Partly.”

“Partly.”

He sighed.

“Mom, I know we handled that badly.”