Fact-Check Rating: One hundred percent true. Because no one understood more about flaws than my dad.

“Beckett.” Someone grabs my shoulder and shakes me. “Beck, honey, wake up.”

I blink into the dark and see my mother’s silhouette leaning over me. “I’m awake.” Almost.

“I need to talk to you,” she whispers. My bedside lamp clicks, and light floods my room. “I’m sorry it’s so late.”

“S’okay. What’s wrong?” I blink sleep from my eyes.

“Shhh …” She nods toward the hallway. “In the kitchen.”

My mother is no longer smiling.

I’ve only been asleep for two hours, because I watched It’s A Wonderful Life over FaceTime with Jake until nearly midnight. But I throw back the covers and shiver as I step into my fuzzy green Grinch slippers—a gift from my dad last Christmas. At least, his name was on the tag, but I’m not sure how much shopping he did himself.

“What’s going on, Mom?” I ask again as I follow her into the kitchen. Her eyes are red from crying, and I can smell wine on her breath, but she’s not drunk. Her gaze is very, very focused. If teary.

“Do you want some cider? I can stick a mug in the microwave.”

I shrug as I settle onto one of the bar stools. “I kind of feel like that’s the least you owe me, after waking me up at two in the morning.”

“I’m sorry.” She pulls a plastic carton of apple cider from the fridge and half fills a mug, then she sticks it into the microwave and sets the timer for thirty seconds. And for that entire thirty seconds, I wait for her to say something.

Twice, she starts to. But then she closes her mouth again and bites at that hangnail on her thumb. Both times.

I eat a white-chocolate-covered pretzel that’s fallen from its position as part of the fence around our gingerbread house.

When the microwave beeps, we both jump. My mother opens the door and pulls out the mug, then she grabs a shaker of cinnamon from the spice rack and sprinkles a little on top of my cider.

“What’s going on?” I ask again as she sets the mug in front of me.

She settles onto the stool at the other end of the island, leaving the one between us empty. “Beckett, I have to ask you a question again, and I really need you to tell me the truth this time.” She takes a deep breath, and dread churns in my stomach. “Is Lullaby Doe your baby?”

“What?”

“Please just answer the question.”

“I’ve already answered that question a million times. No, she’s not mine. I’ve never been pregnant. Why are you asking me this again, at two in the morning?”