Chapter 31 Tidings of Unicorns
Chapter thirty-one
Tidings of Unicorns
Miranda
Wrapping paper is everywhere. SJ’s halfway through constructing a cardboard fort from the debris and has already declared this the best Christmas ever.
He’s beaming at his new skateboard—bright red with lightning bolts and a helmet he insists he’ll definitely wear. We’ll see. I’m helping him peel one of those impossible plastic ties off a box when someone offers me a mince pie and a Bucks Fizz. I take both.
Around the room, there’s the usual festive soundtrack: polite laughter, the crinkle of paper, a dad joke from Irene’s brother. Christmas in full swing.
I’m just sitting back with my fizz when Sim-Sim hands me a box.
Small. Heavy. Too nicely wrapped.
“Oh,” I say, caught off guard. “You didn’t need to—”
“Go on,” he says, smiling. “Open it.”
I pull at the ribbon and lift the lid.
Inside is a delicate silver necklace—fine chain, sparkling pendant. Definitely expensive. Definitely a statement.
My stomach does that uneasy shift. I smile, automatically, but it’s the kind that doesn’t reach my eyes.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, carefully. “But…”
Sim-Sim leans in slightly, still smiling. “No buts. I wanted you to have it.”
I glance around the room. All eyes aren’t on me, but they could be in a second.
I lower my voice. “Sim… this is too much.”
“It’s Christmas,” he says with a shrug. “It felt right.”
I want to give it back. Tell him gently that this isn’t where we are. That jewellery, especially jewellery like this, carries weight. Suggestion. Intention.
But I also don’t want to turn Christmas Day into a scene. Not with SJ watching. Not with Irene looking like she’s already mentally planning our vow renewals.
So I nod again. “Thank you.”
I slip the box back into my lap and sip my drink.
My smile stays in place, but now it aches just a little.
A while later, the lounge has thinned out—people drifting towards the kitchen, the telly murmuring in the background. Sim-Sim’s dad is already hovering near the wine like he’s preparing for a tactical refill.
I glance over at the tangle of wrapping paper and rogue gift tags on the carpet. “Come on, love,” I say to SJ. “Let’s get your presents upstairs before someone breaks a hip.”
He nods, gathering his skateboard under one arm and a pile of smaller boxes under the other.
As we head up the stairs, he says, “Can we give Twinklesocks and Thor their presents now?”
I smile. “Absolutely. Christmas is for everyone.”
He speeds up with renewed purpose, calling, “They’ve been very good since we got them!”
“Thor ate someone’s dinner yesterday. And Twinklesocks is a constant jail breaker.”
“They are trying.”
We reach the guest room, and the moment I open the door, Twinklesocks gives me a look like we’re late for an appointment. Thor stretches luxuriously on the duvet, then flops onto his side as if he’s not imprisoned but simply above it all.
SJ pulls two tiny stockings out of my suitcase. Each stocking is barely the size of my hand, stitched with glittery thread and crammed full of little cat toys—jingly mice, feather things, and what I hope is a catnip fish and not a novelty bath bomb.
We present them like royal offerings.
Thor pounces immediately, dragging one of the mice under the bed like he’s hunted it himself. Twinklesocks sniffs hers with suspicion, then daintily pats a springy ball off the edge of the mattress.
SJ grins, delighted. “They love them.”
“They’re not repulsed. That’s high praise, coming from Twinklesocks.”
I watch them both for a second—my son, my chaos gremlins, the tiny stockings—and for a brief moment, it all feels strangely peaceful.
Even if there’s a very expensive necklace in my hand and a growing weight in my chest that hasn’t yet worked out what to do with itself.
While Thor murders a feather on a string and Twinklesocks glares at a festive jingle ball like it’s offended her ancestors, I glance at SJ, who’s now sitting cross-legged on the bed, fiddling with the empty stocking.
I clear my throat lightly. “You do know, sweetheart… me being here doesn’t mean I’m getting back together with your dad.”
He nods without looking up. “I know.”
I wait a beat, watching him, the way his fingers twist the ribbon on one of the toys.
Then, after a pause, he says, quiet but clear, “I’m not sure I want you to.”
That takes me by surprise.
I sit beside him. “No?”
He shakes his head slowly. “I like you in Kent. You’re funny and chaotic. You don’t make me iron napkins or do everything with matching cutlery.”
A little laugh escapes me. “You never told me you noticed that.”
He shrugs. “It’s just different. You’re different. In a good way.”
I wait, because I can tell there’s more.
“And here,” he goes on, voice dipping, “you’re not like that. You’re quieter. You say sorry more. Yesterday, you let Grandma say that weird word about your weight and you didn’t even say anything.”
My chest tightens. “I didn’t think you heard that.”
He shrugs again. “I did.”
I look at him—my eight-year-old, who somehow always seems two steps ahead of me when I’m busy playing catch-up with myself.
“I think I like Kent Mum better,” he says, and nudges the cat toy with his toe. “She laughs more.”
I reach for him and pull him into a hug, tight and warm, his little arms coming around me without hesitation.
So do I, sweetheart. So do I.
It’s late now. The house has quietened—just the occasional creak of ancient pipes and the hum of someone’s overworked boiler.
SJ is finally asleep, curled up like a comma under the covers, one hand still loosely gripping a toy car he insisted needed to sleep “nearby for safety.” I kissed his forehead, turned out the light, and stood there a little too long before slipping back to my room.
The necklace is now in the drawer and it’s best off there. Instead, I go to my bag and take out Jasper’s box.
I’ve thought about it since he gave it to me. Wondered what it could be, resisted the urge to peek, resisted the ache every time I thought about him handing it to me, standing there in his stupidly perfect jumper, smiling like it wasn’t costing him anything.
I climb onto the bed, settle the box in my lap, and slowly peel away the paper.
Then I lift the lid.
And laugh.
Unicorn clog-style slippers. Fluffy. Ridiculous. White with little golden horns and pastel manes, like something plucked straight from a little girl’s dream sequence.
They are… perfect.
Absurd, impractical, cosy—and perfect.
I spot the little card tucked inside the box, nestled between the slippers like it’s trying to stay warm.
A certain eight-year-old let it slip you once had a pair and left them on holiday.
Thought it was time you had another.
No princess should be without her unicorns.
Love, Jasper
That does it. My throat tightens, and I let out a breath that’s halfway between a laugh and something else entirely.
I slide my feet into them—soft, warm, immediately comfy. The manes tickle my ankles. They are not subtle footwear. They are joyful, ridiculous declarations of nonsense. And I love them.
Still smiling, I pad over to the dresser and open the top drawer.
The necklace is exactly where I left it, coiled in its velvet box, waiting to be something significant.
I bring it back to the bed and sit down. Stretch my legs out, slippers front and centre, unicorn horns pointed nobly at the wardrobe. I set the necklace beside them on the duvet.
One gift is chaos and colour. Laughter. Magic. The part of me that’s messy and late and full of ideas. The part I’d started to rediscover.
The other is elegance. Weight. Stability. A future with edges smoothed and mapped out. A version of my life where things are done properly and no one forgets their salad fork.
I stare at both.
And for a long moment, I just sit. Slippers on my feet. Necklace glinting beside me.
Two lives. Two men.
And me, right in the middle.