Emergency housing.
Not cars.
Not vacations.
Not a parent’s wish list disguised as a child’s future.
Michael exploded first.
“She can’t do this.”
The lawyer folded his hands.
“She already has.”
Laura’s face turned red.
“We are her children.”
“Yes,” he said. “She mentioned that several times.”
Fiona stared at the photograph attached to the back of the letter.
The Christmas table at 12:15 a.m.
Seventeen untouched plates.
Seventeen empty chairs.
The stockings near the mantel.
My name cards lined up like evidence.
Fiona covered her mouth.
“Mom took a picture?”
The lawyer nodded.
“She documented everything.”
There was a long silence.
I was not there, but he told me later that silence was the first honest thing in the room.
Michael turned on Fiona.
“Why are you crying?”
She looked at him like she was seeing him clearly for the first time.
“Because we did this.”
Laura snapped, “Don’t start.”
But Fiona did start.
She stood up with the letter in her hand and said, “We left her alone on Christmas. All of us.”
Michael muttered that everybody was busy.
Fiona pointed at the photograph.
“Busy for a phone call? Busy for one message? Busy for ten years?”
