Merry Christmas
*
Deck the halls with boughs of holly.
I stared at the computer screen, the hum of the office fading beneath the monotony.
The spreadsheet blurred—rows bleeding together, indistinguishable in their dull sameness.
This clerical grind was my life now. Since the company reassigned Project Melon to Lily Brock, I’d spent my days buried in error codes and update logs, far removed from leadership meetings, strategic brainstorms, and the sense that I was a real project manager.
Christmas vacation was my only glimmer of hope: two weeks without spreadsheets or data validation, just me, a blanket, and a game controller.
I clung to that image—my safe little apartment, a crackling fireplace video looping on the TV.
Silence before family chaos intruded. Freedom hovered just hours away, fragile and conditional, as always.
“Brianna!”
Hope’s voice sliced through the fog.
I pushed back from my desk, grateful for the interruption.
Stepping into Hope’s cubicle felt like crossing dimensions.
She covered her walls with snapshots—rock-climbing adventures, postcards from cliffs and deserts, hand-pinned next to her son’s cereal-smeared grin.
Hope radiated energy, born from surviving hell and choosing joy anyway.
She’d walked away from a toxic marriage and created a co-parenting dynamic that worked.
I envied the way she carried it all with such grace.
She flashed a grin. “Got a holiday surprise for you.”
Panic tightened in my chest. Oh God. Gifts? Are we doing gifts? I hadn’t gotten her anything. My brain scrambled through a mental list of stores still open during lunch.
She leaned closer, eyes sparkling. “I pulled some strings. You’re back on Project Melon.”
I blinked. “Wait—seriously?”
Project Melon wasn’t glamorous. It was a grocery pricing app that used GPS and online flyers to help users find the best deals.
Nevertheless, I cared about it. Deeply.
I’d been part of it from the beginning, and more than that, I knew what it was like to stretch $15 across a week. The work mattered.
Hope nodded, clearly pleased. “It’s not confidential anymore, so I made the case to reassign it. You’ll need to coordinate with Lily after the break, but it’s officially yours again.”
Relief surged, tangled with dread.
“What about Lily? Won’t she mind?”
Hope shrugged. “If she does, she’ll get over it. You’re more than capable of having that conversation.”
I wasn’t sure about that. My stomach churned. Hope must’ve noticed because her voice softened.
“I’ll handle it, but Bree— you’ve got to stop letting your mom’s voice live rent-free in your head. You’re not the scared kid she raised anymore.”
I regretted telling Hope anything about my mother at this moment. Even though she was trying to help, I despised others determining what was wrong with me based on the actions of my family.
I nodded quickly, eager to shift the moment. She slipped her heels back on and stood, somehow towering over me in height and spirit. I watched her stride back into the cubicle maze, glowing with purpose. I lingered, glancing at the clock.
Just a few more hours until freedom.
But it didn’t last.
“You couldn’t even tell me to my face that you’re taking Project Melon back?”
Lily’s voice sliced the air like glass. I spun in my chair. She stood tall, pristine in a tailored blouse and sleek ponytail, like she belonged on a magazine cover, not in our beige-gray office.
“I didn’t take it back,” I said, shrinking under her glare.
“Don’t make this a thing,” she snapped. “If you’re reclaiming it, just own it.”
“I—I wasn’t trying to go behind your back,” I stammered. “Are you…mad?”
She sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “No, Brianna. I’m not mad. I’m annoyed you didn’t say anything. I didn’t even want the project.”
That caught me off guard. “You didn’t?”
She rolled her eyes. “Craig asked me to do it. He needed someone with clearance.”
Ah. Craig Brock. Her brother. Director of Special Projects. Of course. Another product of nepotism in corporate packaging. A flicker of resentment ran through me, but I buried it.
“I’m sorry you got stuck with it,” I said, and this time, I meant it.
She waved it off but paused before walking away. “Why did you lie about your family?” she asked, quieter now. “I met your mom, remember?”
My heart dropped. “It was stupid,” I admitted, my voice brittle.
“Everyone has family baggage,” she said, her tone almost kind. “No one would’ve cared.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “You believe that?”
Her brow furrowed. “Why wouldn’t I?”
I leaned forward, voice sharp. “You want to play the ‘everyone’s family sucks’ game?”
I didn’t wait for permission.
“The first time CPS came to our house, I was three. My sister ran away.”
Lily blinked, lips parting.
“My dad shrugged and said, ‘She does that.’”
Lily tried to interject when I continued, “Then, ten years later, my brother hit the runaway sister with a keyboard, and she nearly tore his ear off. When the cops came, they left, knowing it was just our family. There were no charges pressed.”
Lily’s face paled, but I kept going.
“Oh yeah, and the time my mom left me in a casino lobby until three in the morning so she could play the slots. I was twelve.”
Her voice was barely a whisper. “Brianna…I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want your pity,” I snapped. “I just want people to understand. Not everyone gets handed a clean slate. Some of us have to claw for every inch.”
The soft look on Lily’s face vanished. In its place, the old reflex returned—privilege wrapped in poise. She straightened, replying stiffly, “I worked for this.”
“Sure you did,” I muttered, returning to my computer. “Keep telling yourself that.”
She lingered a moment longer, pulling out her phone as if she had received an urgent text before finally walking away.
I exhaled slowly as the clock ticked closer to five. My chest still ached. Talking about my family always left me raw, and Lily’s shocked silence made it worse.
My phone buzzed. A new email notification lit up the screen:
From:
Subject:
Scheduled Debrief – Re: Behavioral Misunderstanding on 12/24 – January 3rd, 10:30 a.m.
This is a standard mediation protocol. Please bring a printed copy of your completed worksheet, “Interpersonal conflicts,” to the session.
“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered, slinging my bag over my shoulder. So much for the relaxing holiday corporate loved to pretend we got.