“I don’t want a repeat of last christmas.”
I glanced up at my overbearing mother. “What do you expect me to do?”
My mother scoffed, anxiously twisting the ridiculous bracelets adorning her wrist. A spectacle of faux luxury, perpetrated by my mother’s incessant desire to impress her newest boyfriend. “Behave this time.”
“I always behave,” I spoke tersely, ignoring the way my mother rolled her eyes in my direction before tirelessly returning the task of cleaning our tiny midtown apartment.
The truth of the matter was that my mother should be thankful for my intervention. Because each subsequent boyfriend, whom my mother often deemed “the one,” turned out to be a complete mockery. In fact, I often wondered if my mother was playing some big practical joke on me when she brought these worthless men home with her. Perhaps it was a test by which my mother intended to determine whether or not I was truly honoring the legacy of my late father’s memory.
And none of these boyfriends could compete with my father.
I often made sure to tell her exactly what I was thinking, but my mother seemed undeterred in her determination to find someone else to bring home. A new man to bore me with stories of his dead-end office job or the possibility of new step siblings inviting new life into the wearied existence that entailed myself and my mother.
“He’ll be here soon,” my mother said, pointing to my bedroom door. “Change now.”
I obeyed reluctantly, turning off the television to wander in the direction my mother had indicated. And it was only once I was securely behind closed doors that I finally allowed myself to break down, reaching out for the picture on my nightstand. I clutched the frame tightly to my chest as I allowed myself to feel all those terrible emotions that a simple mention of my father’s name could evoke.
My mother was trying to replace him and each subsequent effort only made me realize more and more that my father would never return. He would no longer be there to help decorate the Christmas tree or cook us breakfast in the morning before we opened gifts. In fact, my father was growing distant in my memories and I no longer shared the enthusiasm I once exuded for the brilliant Yuletide holiday.
Nothing would ever be the same again.
