But that would be my reality, at least for a while.

When we pulled up to the house, I got a little teary-eyed at seeing it blanketed with snow and covered in lights. It was beautiful and familiar, reminding me of Christmases from my childhood—I’d missed it.

My mom misted up as well when she greeted us, and she gave me an extra long hug. “It’s going to be okay, darling,” she whispered, squeezing me tight. “You’re home now. You belong here.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I hoped with all my heart she was right.

* * *

Later, April and I snuck over to the bar at the inn for a glass of wine, and I told her about Breakfast with Santa.

“Wait—you did what?” Seated across the high-top table from me, April paused with her glass halfway to her mouth.

“I got drunk at Breakfast with Santa, dumped a pitcher of ice water in Brett’s lap, took the mic right out of jolly old St. Nick’s hand, made a kid cry, and told the entire country club not to be an asshole.” I cringed. “Then I said ‘peace out’ and dropped the mic.”

She burst out laughing. “You did not!”

“I did,” I admitted, wrinkling my nose. “It was pretty bad.”

“What possessed you?”

I told her the news about Kimmy’s pregnancy, how she’d said terrible things about me in public, how my former friends had failed to have my back. “I just couldn’t take it anymore,” I said. “I’ve kept my cool this whole time, but I finally had to let it out.”

“I don’t blame you. How did the kids react?”

“I’m sure they were embarrassed, but neither of them wanted to talk about it when they got home.”

She shrugged. “Well, parents have been embarrassing their children since the beginning of time. They’ll live. They might need therapy,” she added, “but they’ll live.”

“Yeah. I think we’ll all need some therapy. Including Santa.” I winced a little as I recalled the old man’s befuddled face when I went charging up to him.

“Santa will get over it. Your kids are the only people you need to worry about. How are they doing?”

“Hard to say for sure,” I fretted. “They don’t talk much about their feelings.”

“No?”

“No, I think they’re coping in other ways—Whitney has taken to wearing a lot of heavy makeup.”

April smiled ruefully. “I noticed that. Looks like you during your black eyeliner phase. Mom hated it so much, remember?”

I exhaled. “I do, and part of me says she’s just acting like a normal thirteen-year-old girl. But another part of me wonders if it’s some kind of mask she’s trying to put on for protection.”

“Hmm.” April’s forehead creased. “That’s a tough one.”