70. Waiting & Wreaths
Waiting the silence has already stretched thin. Gongju’s ears flick, her gaze turning from Dad back to me. He clears his throat, trying for levity. “Maybe next time we’ll actually get to meet the girl before it’s over. Would be a nice change.”
I laugh, even manage to make it sound real. “Yeah. Maybe.”
After dinner we exchange gifts, a few small, thoughtful things.
A new watch from Dad. Hand-knit gloves from Mum.
I give Dad a handmade scarf, Mum her favorite fresh honey and both a framed photo from the band’s last tour, one where we actually look happy.
They hold it like it’s gold. Gongju sniffs the wrapping paper, loses interest, and hops back onto mum’s foot like she’s her personal blanket.
I blame my retreat on jet lag, exhaustion, anything but what it really is: the need to be alone before I break.
My childhood room hasn’t changed. Same bookshelf, same faded posters, same view of the neighbor’s porch light flickering through the snow.
I sit on the bed, phone in hand, thumb brushing the screen until it wakes, casting pale light across the room. Nothing. No message.
I’ve been telling myself all day that she might, just might, reach out again. Like Thanksgiving. Just a few words. Something small to mean she’s still there. Still thinking of me. Still tethered to whatever’s left between us. But the hours crawl by. Midnight comes and goes.
I scroll through our old messages anyway. Thanksgiving. Have a nice day? The stupid, ordinary beauty of it.
“Come on, Kasia,” I whisper to the dark. “Just… something.”
The phone stays blank, cold in my hand. I press it against my chest, like maybe she’ll feel it somehow.
Like distance works like static and I can send it through the air if I just wish hard enough.
It should start to feel easier any day now, I tell myself.
It doesn’t. Snow drifts against the window, soft as breath. I can’t sleep.
Can’t sit here and do nothing.
The house is quiet, the kind of quiet that sinks into the walls, into your bones.
I move through it as silently as I can, sliding across the floorboards barefoot, hoodie half-zipped.
I check the hall drawer first, then the sideboard, then the cupboard where Mum hoards wrapping paper like she’s preparing for a gift-giving apocalypse.
Nothing. I try the basket full of half-dead pens and loose batteries. Still nothing.
“Brilliant,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. “Absolutely brilliant.”
I turn to find Gongju standing in the doorway, head tilted, watching me with an intensity that feels… uncomfortably perceptive.
A voice drifts from the living room. “Try the drawer under the telly, adeul. (son)”
I startle and turn. Mum’s awake, curled into her armchair in pajama bottoms and an oversized jumper, knitting needles paused mid-stitch.
Gongju trots over and hops up beside her without being invited, tucking herself neatly against her thigh.
The lamplight turns her silver strands into a soft halo.
The fire is low but warm enough to gild her face in gold.
“Mum,” I whisper as I step closer. “Why aren’t you asleep? It’s late.”
“I was.” She shrugs. “Then I wasn’t. Happens at my age.”
She pushes herself up, her joints cracking, and shuffles to the cabinet beside the TV.
From the bottom shelf she pulls out a shoebox that has clearly survived several decades.
Dented, taped at the corners, somehow still intact.
She opens it to reveal a chaotic pile of Christmas cards: dated, tacky, oddly sentimental.
The sort kept for the last-minute oh no, they sent one this year? moments.
“These are for relatives who send cards even though I haven’t spoken to them in years,” she says with a hint of amusement. “And your father’s old colleagues who still think we host dinner parties.”
I let out a short laugh. “Perfect.”
I crouch beside the coffee table and start flipping through them.
Gongju hops down and sits beside me, nose twitching as she inspects the pile with surprising seriousness.
Snowmen with questionable anatomy. Glitter angels shedding like they’ve got dandruff.
A reindeer drawn by someone who definitely shouldn’t have been trusted with a marker.
Mum watches me sift through the mess, watches my hands slow, watches my shoulders drop.
“It’s for her, isn’t it?” she asks softly.
I don’t bother denying it. I just nod.
Her expression gentles immediately. She folds her arms, almost as if she’s bracing herself around something tender. “I can tell when my son is in love.”
I look down at the card I’ve stopped on, a plain white one with a small wreath printed in the center. Simple. Unremarkable. I wish it were worthy of what I feel. I set it on the table and sit back on my heels.
“Wish it were nicer,” I admit.
Gongju leans forward and sniffs the card, then looks up at me, dark eyes steady. Mum reaches out and touches my shoulder, gentle in that way only she knows. “She won’t care about that,” she says. “She’ll care that it's from you.”
I look at the blank inside of the card. The emptiness of it hits something in me, so much space, so many things I could say, so many I shouldn’t. I nod once. “Yeah. I hope so.”
Mum gives a small, knowing smile and settles back into her chair, picking up her knitting again. “Make yourself a cup of tea before you write anything. Words come easier that way.”
I stand, card in hand, and head toward the kitchen.
I have to get every word right. When I stand, Gongju stands too.
She follows me into the kitchen, and sits squarely by my feet as I set the card down and pick up a pen.
Just present, warm. I lean down and run my fingers through her fur.
For the first time ever, she leans into my hand, a shared understanding.
“Don’t go soft on me now, princess. I don’t need your pity, you know?” I murmur softly. Her tail gives a single, slow wag.
Outside, the cold hits with a bite. Snowflakes spin in the porch light. I swing my leg over the bike, engine low, visor fogging as I breathe. The roads are empty, just me and my thoughts are out tonight.
By the time I reach her parents’ street, the world’s white.
Their porch light glows faintly through the snow.
It shakes me, the memories that live in this place, the sound of her laughter, the warmth that once waited behind that door.
I don’t let myself think. I just open their mailbox and drop it in.
Maybe by the time they find it, I’ll be in the air. Maybe they’ll read it, maybe they won’t. Maybe it’ll do some good, even if it’s a little late. I flip my visor down and drive home. When I crawl back into bed, the window’s glowing with moonlight and snow.
“Merry Christmas, Kasia,” I whisper to the dark.
For a moment, it feels like she hears me.