Zara had always loved Christmas time.
Christmas time had never loved her back.
When it was just her and her mother living with Matthew Tomeo, December felt like a waiting room. Cold, silent, and full of dread. The colder it got, the worse he became. The pub swallowed him every night and sent him home heavier with drink and anger.
They learned how to wait.
Zara and her mother would sit close together, sharing warmth, listening for his footsteps in the hallway. The apartment was never warm enough. Every creak of the stairs made Zara's heart jolt. Every burst of laughter from outside made her stomach twist.
He never brought joy home with him. Only bitterness.
The last Christmas they ever spent with him, he came home just before dawn.
Zara remembered the time because she had stared at the clock until her eyes burned.
4:32 am.
Christmas morning.
Matthew stumbled through the door, laughing to himself. The sound cut through the apartment like glass. When his eyes landed on Zara, the laughter died instantly.
Hatred filled them.
"Where is your mother?"
Zara was barely thirteen. She stood frozen in her nightdress, fingers curled into the thin fabric. "She is in the bathroom," she said. "She was not feeling well."
He shoved past her, the smell of alcohol thick and sour.
"Why would she bother washing," he sneered. "After sleeping with half the men on the street."
Zara's chest tightened. Her mother had been with her all evening. She was bathing because she felt feverish. Zara had been worried about him, about how late it was.
The bathroom door flew open.
Her mother screamed.
Matthew dragged Greta out of the bathtub, water spilling everywhere, her body slamming onto the stained carpet. He removed his belt.
Her pregnant mother.
Zara screamed until her throat burned. She hit him with everything she had, fists useless, tears blinding her, praying someone would come. Anyone.
No one did.
The neighbors were used to the Tomeos.
When it was over, Matthew buckled his belt and walked out humming, leaving the door wide open.
Cold air rushed in.
Zara dropped to her knees beside her mother and tried to touch her. Greta pushed her away gently.
"It is okay Zara," she whispered, forcing a smile that did not fit her face. "I was just worried about the baby."
Her hand rested over her swollen stomach, just above a dark bruise. Blood streaked her skin. Still, she spoke softly to her belly, cooing through tears.
Zara felt dizzy with disgust.
"I will get you clothes," she said, standing on shaking legs.
Greta did not answer.
Zara stepped into the hallway and glanced at the clock again.
4:32 am.
"Please die on the way home," she whispered into the dark. "Please."
She closed the door.
This Christmas was supposed to be different.
Patrick came home at seven on the dot one winter evening. Christmas was only days away and Greta buzzed with excitement, moving restlessly around the house.
During dinner, Patrick slid an envelope across the table.
"A man came to the factory today," he said. "Said his daughter is friends with you."
"Careful," Greta joked. "It could be a bomb."
Zara barely heard her.
She tore open the envelope and stared at the bottom.
"Love Resha."
Her mouth fell open.
Resha. Her best friend. The girl she had left behind without a word. Beautiful, loud, fearless Resha. Even after Zara had stopped going to school, Resha had written. She had tried to visit. Zara had never explained. The shame had been too heavy.
Yet Resha had still found her.
Zara's chest tightened as she read.
⸻
Dear Zara,
I owe you seventeen hard knocks. One for every night I went to bed crying over you. You could not tell me? After everything?
I am angry but I miss you. I miss us. I miss our laughs and our late night adventures. Remember the river and the cold chips? My parents nearly killed me.
Everything feels paused without you. I know you Zara. You keep everything inside and that scares me.
Please write back. Come visit. Even if it is just a week.
Merry Christmas.
Love Resha.
P. S how are the dreams ?
⸻
Zara squeezed her eyes shut.
A sound burst out of her that was half laugh, half sob.
Both Greta and Patrick jumped.
"It is Resha," Zara said breathlessly. "She wants me to visit. She misses me."
Patrick smiled at her, warm and genuine. "You deserve that."
Hope surged too fast in Zara's chest.
Then she looked at her mother.
Greta was shaking her head.
Not gently. Not sadly.
Disdain filled her face.
"I am sorry sweetie," Greta said tightly. "You are not going anywhere."