And he was on top.

So he dipped down and set about doing that.

In the end, he succeeded.

Chapter Twenty-Five

No Room for Tears

Cher

Thursday Morning, Mid-December

“We should do Christmas here,” Ethan said to Merry and me while sitting at the breakfast bar in Merry’s awesome new house, shoveling in some of Merry’s pancakes. “We can open presents, then go out and ice skate on the lake or something.”

“Kid, it hasn’t even snowed,” I reminded him. “There’s about a half a centimeter rim of ice that runs the edge of the lake and that’s it.”

He shrugged. “Maybe we’ll get a deep freeze between now and then.”

“We don’t have ice skates,” I went on.

“That would be why we’d go out after we open presents. And just sayin’, ice skates are a big fat no. Hockey skates, though…” He let that hang.

And there it was. Shared with all the finesse of a hammer.

My kid wanted hockey skates for Christmas.

This did not fill me with joy. Hockey skates might lead to hockey lessons and hockey probably cost a mint. I didn’t have a mint nor would I ever.

But if my kid wanted hockey skates then hockey lessons, I’d find a way.

I just wished he’d turn his attention to Frisbee. A Frisbee champion needed functioning limbs and a plastic disc. Ethan luckily already had functioning limbs and I figured even the most expensive Frisbee you could get cost less than hockey skates.

On this thought, Merry spoke.

“Bud, don’t have any decorations and your place is already all set up, seein’ as we spent twelve hours straight decorating it a week ago and now it looks like Santa vomited all over the joint.”

Ethan busted out laughing.

I turned and glared at Merry.

Merry, not sitting but bent over his plate at the bar opposite Ethan, turned his attention from his plate of pancakes to me.

“What?” he asked, one side of his lips tipped up.

“I like Christmas,” I snapped.

“I can tell,” he replied.

Ethan kept laughing.

“I got a kid,” I stated. “You decorate for Christmas when you have a kid.”

“Mom, I quit believing in Santa Claus when I was six,” Ethan reminded me of the dire day he imparted that information on me, information he’d learned from some snot at school who had an older brother and sister, both of whom had big mouths as did Ethan’s snot friend. “Now I’m nearly twelve. I’m totally over the over-the-top Christmas stuff.”

“Yes, you did stop believing in Santa when you were six,” I confirmed. “You also quit getting presents from him when you quit believing in him. Think about that for a second, smart guy.”

The look on Ethan’s face told me he was thinking about it and I’d made my point.

I didn’t rub it in.

But I did keep at him.

“And you’re not nearly twelve. You’re eleven and two months. That isn’t even close to nearly twelve.”