box out of sight until I could burn it. At least the bad parts.
But before I could hide it, I needed to remove the Christmas presents under the bed. I pulled out the first box, flat and a large rectangle. The tag on it—in my writing despite me having never seen the present before—said, To Geoff. Happy belated. Mom.
Since I’d not expected his surprise visit for Christmas—and I mean surprise when I opened the door and my kid was standing there—I’d not bought anything. In my defense, I’d mailed a check which somehow ended up under the tree with an old pocket watch I’d never seen. so not entirely nothing, and yet, I felt horrible because his sister had so many gifts to open. My poor magical house, taken off guard, had nothing prepared. I wonder if it suffered anxiety at the thought.
Yes, magical house. I’d finally come to terms with the fact my home took care of me. From shifting subtly to match the house of my dreams to providing the things I needed. Like the smaller wrapped present, which I just knew was going to be some kind of game system.
“Thank you,” I said aloud since I didn’t know if my house could hear my thoughts or needed speech. Was it alive? Did it feel? Think?
I went with the flow and tried not to worry about it, although I did wonder if some of the house’s magic was bound in some way. Perhaps, complicated things like electronics were harder to create or acquire. Which begged the question, did my magical house actually perform replicator-type capabilities, or did it buy or steal what it needed?
My imagination conjured a cloud of minions, short and dressed uniformly with masks and slim-fitting unitards, piling out of some inter-dimensional rip. They’d scurry to take what they needed and pop back through a portal.
It would be cool if true.
Eyeing the large present—apparently the house really wanted to make an impression—I said, “I don’t suppose you could deliver them to the basement?”
I would have sworn I felt an answering hum. The presents went back under the bed, and I grabbed Martin’s box, meaning to do the same.
As I went to shift it, it tilted over, and some bags slid out. The topmost one had neat and tidy writing. The date? The year I met Martin. He’d kept a journal while we were dating? Did I know my husband of more than two decades at all?
On a whim, I grabbed the notebook and sat on the window seat, feet tucked up as I read. Him getting to college. His room. His classes. Then…
Met a cute girl today. Think I’ll ask her out.
Looking at the date, I could only surmise I was the girl.
I kept reading.
There’s something special about Naomi. And tragic too. Horrible that she lost her parents. Makes me wish I had a family to give her.
As I kept reading, nostalgia for the man that once loved me filled me. Nice to know I’d not imagined we were once in love. What I didn’t understand was what happened to change it? How had we gone from a young couple taking on the world as a team to tiptoeing around each other? Then keep moving to the hate Martin exhibited at the end. I eyed the journals, the smell not as bad now that I’d taken them out of the box. Maybe I shouldn’t burn them quite yet.
Could I find out where things went wrong? Did I even want to know?
Honestly? Maybe. But not today.
Piling the stuff back in the box, I slid it out of sight. For a second, I wondered if the house would take care of it for me.
Having gone from being on time to running behind, I barely had time to whip together a bulletproof coffee. As a low-carb convert, I fasted in the morning, drinking a coffee laced with MCT oil and a dash of cream frothed together. It would keep me going until lunch.
As I drove toward town, I passed the gas station and glanced over to see if I could spot Darryl’s truck. He wasn’t in yet, although I’d probably see him at one point. Since Christmas he’d made a point of seeing me, even if briefly, every day. Like Boxing Day when he’d shown up to eat leftovers with me. Apparently, the man loved turkey.
Wendy and Geoff had gone to town looking for deals, so it was just him and me. He’d kissed me after that meal. A