Three hours later, the kids are finally in bed and I’m sitting with a Santa mug of mulled wine in the darkened living room, staring at the tree, the red and green and blue and gold lights glowing and my favorite old Neil Diamond Christmas album playing. Daniel hated my Neil Diamond Christmas album, as well as the Barry Manilow, Carpenters, and Barbra Streisand albums, but he’s not here anymore and I can damn well play what I want.

And Neil Diamond is such a guilty pleasure.

“Song Sung Blue.”

“Cherry, Cherry.”

“I am… I said.” Or something like that.

I sip the spiced mulled wine, a recipe I’ve made every year for the past thirteen years. It was one of Daniel’s and my first traditions. Pizza, mulled wine, and tree.

Daniel probably doesn’t even remember why I started making mulled wine. The mulled wine was to coax him into helping put up the tree after work. He’d be tired, and not festive, but I’d make the wine and put on some carols, and after a few cups he’d be in the spirit. It always worked. By cup three he was singing along with the Neil Diamond CD I snuck into shuffle mode.

I miss him. We can’t be married anymore—we just grew too far apart—but I do miss the traditions, the fun times, the family times. I think that’s what I miss most.

The kids will never have Mom and Dad in the same house.

They’ll never have a traditional Christmas again.

And it’s such a hard thought, so grim and unsettling, that I get up, pull the plug on the tree lights, return the Santa mug to the kitchen, and head upstairs for bed.

I’m just through washing my face when I hear a horrible splintering crash from downstairs. I go cold everywhere and for a second can’t move. I just stand there with a sick, icy feeling in my middle. I can see myself in the mirror, puffy shower cap still on my head, traces of foamy soapsuds at the hairline, and I know what it is, that thud punctuated by breaking glass.

The tree.

It’s just gone down.

Chapter Two

Two

It’s been twenty days since that happy occasion, but we’ve made it. Tonight’s Christmas Eve. And you know what that means: Showtime!

This is it. No more shopping, no more wrapping, no more frantic last trips to the grocery store. Instead it’s time to pull out all the stops and make it happen. Big dinner, roaring fire, carols, family, friends, and that all-important late night visit from Santa, of course.