What does he mean, they have to go? Why do they have to go? But before I can protest, everyone’s mobilized, charging around, gathering kids and purses, locating sweaters and missing socks.

Watching the move toward the door, I feel only pain and panic. They can’t be going now. They can’t all leave at once. No one’s even eaten dinner!

“You don’t have to go yet, do you?” I plead, blocking the coat closet, arms outstretched. “It’s early still. Not even nine, and I’ve so much food—”

“Jack, my turkey is still in the oven,” Kris interrupts gently. “The kids wanted their traditional dinner at home, so we just pushed our meal back.”

I look at her and feel foolish, even more foolish as tears fill my eyes. “You have a turkey at home?”

“I thought you knew we were coming just for drinks.”

Right. Turning, I look at Nic and Anne. “Do you guys have to leave, too?”

“My mom’s tired,” Nic says. “She only drove up from Portland tonight.”

Right.

And the tears in my eyes are nothing compared to the pressure in my chest. It’s all gone, the life I had, isn’t it? The family, the traditions, the security. There’s nothing left, and suddenly the tears are falling.

I miss my old life, and I’m not quite sure what my new life is.

It’s just so confusing.

I’ve been a wife and mom so long that I’m not sure how not to be a wife anymore. I’m not sure how to be a woman anymore.

I’m not even sure what a woman is or what a woman does.

“Oh, Jack,” Nic says, moving forward to hug me. “Don’t cry. Everything’s good. Everyone had a lovely time.”

I nod against her shoulder. Everyone did seem happy; the kids ran around, and I heard them laughing as they raced upstairs and downstairs and into the kitchen for more grapes and apples. But I made dinner, real dinner, the “sit down around a table and be a family” kind of dinner.

“I just…” And I pull back, wipe beneath my eyes, catching the tears before they can ruin my mascara. “I just thought you were all going to be here longer.”

“It’s Christmas, Jackie.” Kris is trying to be gentle, but it doesn’t help.

That’s exactly the problem. It is Christmas. And it doesn’t feel the way Christmas is supposed to feel. Nothing feels the way it’s supposed to feel.

“I know,” I say. “I know—” My voice breaks, and I feel my face cracking, tears springing. I hate this feeling of losing control. But it’s too late. The control’s gone. All that’s left is exhaustion. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s not you guys. It’s not anything you’ve done. I’m so glad you all came. Really glad.”