“You have a lot of favorites,” I point out with a wry smile.

“Let’s turn in early,” he says, feverish with determination. “Wake up to watch the sunrise and get to work on this list. Your soul needs to bake cookies so badly.”

“I have never seen a sunrise in my entire life.”

Hall claps a hand over his heart. “Are you serious?”

I shrug, gathering up my nightclothes and toiletries to lug into the bathroom. “Probably.”

“Bettie, that’s awful.”

“Why is that awful? It’s just the sun coming up. Does it every day.”

He throws himself flat on his back on the mattress, groaning. Satin candy cane pillows materialize over his face, burying him.

When I return from the bathroom, he’s adding more activities to his list, mumbling under his breath. I can’t help but think that Hall is wasted here, with the Watson-Hughes clan. Our Christmas traditions consist of sniping at each other, exchanging gifts for the sole purpose of one-upmanship, and complaining. Complaining around the dinner table. Complaining around the fireplace. Complaining at the airport about all the complaining everybody did. Hall deserves one of those nice families, who smile sincerely at each other while flipping pancakes and sing carols without rolling their eyes. Every time I see pictures of families in matching Christmas pajamas, I laugh derisively while admittedly getting this small pang of something disturbingly close to envy. What would it be like to be part of a functional family? Sounds like a myth.

My genetic pool doesn’t rise early to admire the dawn. If we rise early, it’s because there’s a limited number of Krispy Kreme donuts. Hall’s going to be so disappointed tomorrow when he watches us all slip off to different rooms to stare at our respective screens until dinnertime, when we meet to argue, then go to bed angry. It’s how the week up until Christmas is spent. Christmas Day is the angriest of them all. Someone always gets somebody else a gift that they find belittling or offensive; someone always threatens to go home early; the family bonds by ganging up on someone (me) and making them sorry they came along. Last year I swore I’d never return.

I climb the ladder, lie down, and close my eyes, listening to small footsteps clattering above. Muffled warnings from parents to get in bed right now. Laughter, televisions, bickering, doors closing. A hair dryer. The dishwasher. Kaia strumming her guitar. We’re a house full of reluctant acquaintances who get together once a year to tear each other apart.

I allow myself to imagine a What If world. Maybe we would stay up late in the living room, tipping our heads onto one another’s shoulders, fuzzy socked feet in other laps, reluctant to go to bed because we enjoy each other’s company so much. We’d still be up right now, sharing stories. Making each other happy. I wouldn’t find it embarrassing if anyone caught me peering out the window at sunrise for the pure interest of seeing it unfold. I wouldn’t be teased for it.