Chapter 1 - The Smallest Pile
The pine needles scraped against the wrapping paper of the smallest package under the mahogany tree, scratching the fragile surface of the cheap pink ribbon I’d tied at two in the morning. My eyes burned with the specific, heavy exhaustion of a nursing mother who hadn’t slept a continuous three hours in eight months, but the physical fatigue was nothing compared to the cold, hollow drop in my stomach.
Mia’s pile—if you could even dignifiedly call a cluster of three lonely items a pile—was completely obscured by the sweeping, snow-dusted artificial branches of my mother’s immaculate holiday centerpiece. Next to it, towering mountains of oversized boxes wrapped in imported foil spilled across the hardwood floor, bearing the names of my brother’s children, my sister-in-law’s corporate colleagues, and even, inexplicably, my mother’s prize-winning Pomeranian, Lord Sterling.
"Oh, look, you managed to find something to bring," Mother said, her voice cutting across the lively hum of the dining room as she adjusted her diamond-encrusted brooch. She didn't look down; she didn't need to. She already knew what was under that tree, because she was the one who had instructed the family decorator to sweep our designated corner clean to make room for a delivery of imported champagne crates. "Though goodness knows, Elena, trying to squeeze a stroller into the foyer was a fire hazard. I do wish you’d consulted me before dragging that massive contraption through my front hall."
I forced my jaw to relax, shifting eight-month-old Mia higher against my chest. Her little hand was tangled in the collar of my sweater, her warm breath puffing softly against my collarbone. "It folds up, Mother. I texted you the dimensions."
May you like
"Texts get lost, Elena. Just like your priorities," Mother replied smoothly, turning back to my brother, Julian, who was laughing loudly at a stock market joke.
I looked down at the floor. Mia’s entire Christmas consisted of a cloth crinkle-book gifted by my younger sister, Chloe; a worn plush bunny from our aunt in Ohio; and two modest, hand-wrapped boxes containing a wooden stacking ring set I’d saved up for three weeks to buy. They looked pathetic. They looked invisible. And as the evening wore on, the suffocating atmosphere of a home that had never once measured love in anything other than price tags began to close in around my throat, preparing the stage for a humiliation I never saw coming.
