As the morning sun slowly started to lighten the room, I threw the duvet over my head, hoping I could delay the inevitable.

I turned on the TV, but “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” greeted me, and it started my breakdown. It caused my entire body to shake. It unleashed an unsteady breathing until I got up and locked myself in the bathroom so I could have some privacy as I sobbed.

That’s where I am now. Lying on the bathroom floor, I let the cool tiles soothe me as I ache for what I used to have. Memories burn into my head of Thanksgiving, merely four weeks ago, with the Gleasons and Dad. The laughter. The joy. The kind of peace you have when you truly belong with people.

As much as I try to bury certain thoughts deep in my mind, I can’t forget about Dad. How we’d come home from Christmas Eve mass and immediately put on our Christmas-themed pajamas. Dad wore a Wisconsin Badgers sweatshirt with green-and-red-striped pajama bottoms. Mine were flannel with reindeer and Santas on them with Ho! Ho! Ho! printed throughout.

I forgot to pack them since they were in a holiday box in the garage that I never thought about going through. The image of that box—filled with ornaments we’d collected through the years along with all our holiday decorations—gathering dust brings more tears to my eyes.

I feel guilty that I turned my back on my father the last time I saw him. Even though he knows I’m sorry, I want to tell him. It’s Christmas, and I can’t talk to my father.

How can you be so angry with someone, be so devastated by their betrayal, yet still love them?

I pull the yellow-and-white bath towel from its hook near the shower and press it against my mouth as I let out a sob, trying to mute myself. I don’t want anybody to know the condition I’m in. I want to stay in here all day.

There’s a knock on the bedroom door. “It’s present time!” Paula’s voice calls out.

I reach up and lock the door to the bathroom.

“Hello?” she calls. Her voice is louder, so I assume she’s in the bedroom now. “Sweetheart?”

“I’ll be down in a minute,” I manage to call out. “You can start without me.”

“Nonsense.” I can see her feet under the door. I hold my breath, not wanting to make a sound that would tip her off there’s a problem.

She’s hovering, so I flush the toilet.

“Okay, well. See you soon. Merry Christmas!”