Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
Ben
Festive chaos blasts through the house. Shouting, screaming, feet that used to be small, stomping around.
I pull my duvet over my head. Ten more minutes. Please.
The idea that Christmas would fade as my children grew up used to worry me. It hasn’t dampened their spirits at all. They’ve regressed to tweens since arriving home.
Savannah came home a few days ago. I hadn’t been sure she would, but her partner is spending the festive season with their family and Savannah with us.
It had been a pleasant surprise. I know as time goes on, it’s likely holidays will be split, and I’ll share my kids not only with their mother but their in-laws. For now, I’ll enjoy her being here.
Rose appeared on the doorstep late last night, fresh off a plane from Mexico…unannounced. She dumped her backpack in the hallway, kicked off sneakers that looked as if they hadn’t been washed in months, then threw herself on the sofa between her brothers. We’d all stared. She just smiled.
“It’s Christmas,” she said, then acted as if she’d never been away.
My bedroom door bursts open, and all four of them rush in, jumping on the bed the way they did years ago. Ollie bounces in one corner. Savannah and Rose flank my sides.
Liam, always quieter, sits on the edge. His gaze moves to his mother’s photo on my bedside table. The familiar sadness flickers before disappearing as his siblings pull him into the present.
Bex loved this. All of it. She would have been orchestrating the chaos. Filming every damn second.
“Come on, Dad,” Rose whines. “Get up.”
Ollie springs harder. We all wobble.
“I’ve made coffee,” Savannah says.
“Is that bribery?” I ask and she laughs.
When she was around twelve, she made breakfast in bed on Christmas Day. I remember her walking through with the tray. Everything perfectly placed—toast, coffee, yogurt—only for her to trip and drop the contents on the bedspread.
“Merry Christmas,” I whisper. “Five minutes and I’ll meet you in the living room.”
Everyone disappears. I’m left in bed, looking at the closed door, and for the first time in years, I realize today I didn’t wake early. On Christmas Day, I usually see dawn, staring at the ceiling, feeling the absence deep in my bones. Today I woke settled, and looking forward to the day ahead.
I wonder what Antonia’s day ahead will look like.
Her son would have barely understood what Christmas meant before he was ripped from her.
I can’t imagine this time of year without my kids.
Never mind knowing I’d lost out on so much.
I hope, wherever she is, she can celebrate with a smile and someone who cares.
We haven’t spoken since the site office.
Since staring at one another in the half-dark, and I asked to kiss her.
There have been a few emails, all strictly business.
But I haven’t seen her in the flesh. I’ve had no reason to.
And she hasn’t visited the retreat, at least not when I’ve been there.
Perhaps she’s avoiding me, but Antonia Cole doesn’t seem like someone to step around what’s uncomfortable.
Part of me hopes she’ll appear on my doorstep, even though I know she won’t.
Her rejection hadn’t been a surprise. My suggestion was. But it felt natural. Like the next step. Not reckless. Inevitable. But she moved back, her choice, and I respect that.
I’m securing my robe when another voice joins the hilarity down the hall.
“Ben,” Amy shouts. I glance at my watch. Eight in the morning. “Ben, wake up.”
“I’m here.”
I step out into the hallway and come face to face with Ivan, Amy’s ex-boyfriend. They broke up earlier in the year. I knew they were talking again, but him being in my home on Christmas morning wasn’t something I expected. My eyes move over his shoulder, and Amy grins from behind him.
“Merry Christmas,” I say, holding out my hand.
He shakes it, poorly hiding the chuckle he’s attempting to swallow.
“You didn’t expect me?” he queries.
“I’ve learned to expect anything when it comes to my sister-in-law.”
He laughs out loud then, and we all make our way to the living room so Christmas can officially begin.
Savannah passes out mugs of steaming hot chocolate. Each one topped with a mountain of whipped cream and marshmallows.
“What happened to the coffee?” I mutter.
“This is more festive.”
My daughter ignores me as she rips shiny red paper from the first gift she finds with her name on it. I stare at my heart attack in a mug. Amy hands me a cookie in the shape of Santa Claus, the icing broken at the edge.
Voices rise, excitement building with every tear of paper.
Liam squeals when his new Arsenal soccer jersey appears. Ollie finds the same, and they both pull them on, bouncing over the floor like kangaroos. I clear my throat, then hold out an envelope for each of them. They pluck them from my fingers.
“Open them together,” I say. That starts the race.
“Dad!” Both my sons bound toward me. Almost full-grown arms wrapping around my neck.
“I’m just glad you support the same team.”
Season tickets.
Two of them.
North London.
Every other Saturday.
Something they can do together. I’d considered getting one for myself, but soccer is their thing. And in their mid-teens, they’re now old enough to attend on their own. My boys grin. I’m just thankful I’m here to see it. Not everyone gets this much time.
***
The leftover turkey is being put away. There’s enough for sandwiches for days. Amy stacks the plates in the dishwasher as I dry the glasses.
“You going later?” she asks.
“Yeah, I haven’t visited in a few weeks.”
I know what she’s talking about. Bex.
“Good.”
“Good, I’m going, or good, it’s been a few weeks?”
She closes the dishwasher door, turning to face me, her expression sad but sincere.
“Good that you’re not defining yourself by grief anymore,” she says quietly. “Good that your life is moving forward. She’d hate you to stop living. I know you love her. And she always knew too.”
We stand silent, my cloth drying the same glass until it squeaks.
“You can visit.” Amy blinks just once, a tear trailing down her cheek. “But you can’t live in a graveyard.”
Liam chooses this moment to walk in and obviously catches the end of her sentence.
“Are you going to visit Mum?” I nod. “I’m coming too.”
In the past, I’d have stopped him. Told him I would take him another time. My time with Bex used to be my own. It was when I processed life, when I asked a gravestone for direction. Today, it feels like paying my respects to the woman I loved and lost.
He walks over to the kitchen cupboard and pulls out the small picnic basket.
I watch my son pack the bottle of Bucks Fizz, three glasses, and a handful of nibbles.
This is how predictable I’ve become: my son knows what I’ll do on one specific day of the year.
Once satisfied, he places the hamper on the island and smiles.
“We’ll leave in ten minutes,” I say. “Dessert can wait until we get home.”
Amy steps forward and hugs her nephew. He lets her. She’s been a huge influence in his life.
“Your mum is so proud of you,” she whispers, voice cracking. “And so am I.”
***
Cars come and go from the graveyard car park in a constant flow.
Christmas Day is always the same: a never-ending stream of visitors to those now gone.
In the past, I’ve sat for hours at Bex’s side.
Speaking, not speaking, it didn’t matter as long as I was with her.
Today, visiting is more of a nod to her rather than a purpose of the day.
That feels both right and wrong. Moving forward was inevitable if I want to live beyond my children’s lives. I never expected it to happen so suddenly. Four years of immobility have taken a matter of months to end.
And meeting Antonia was the catalyst; last night proved that. She may have said no, or I hope not yet, but it showed me that I can want someone again. I want to be with someone in a way I never thought possible. I can imagine her in my bed.
Between her and the retreat, I see now I have so much left to live for. That change can bring positivity while remembering our past.
We find a space. I reverse in, then cut the engine. We sit for a few moments, looking out at the sea of marble and people scattered around in Christmas jumpers and Santa hats. Aesthetically bizarre, but deep down, so right.
Without uttering a word, we open our doors and climb out of the car.
My shoes crunch on the white gravel, still slightly frozen underfoot.
Liam beats me to the trunk, opening it wide and pulling the wreath from its resting place.
A few white lilies woven amongst the holly—they were always Bex’s favorite, Christmas or not.
I collect the picnic basket, and we make the short walk, shoulder to shoulder, to his mum.
Dust has settled on the headstone. Guilt claws that I haven’t been here. I pull a handkerchief from my pocket, wiping away the smudge. Liam lays the floral piece at the base before taking the basket from me. Carefully, he places three glasses on top, then pours the Bucks Fizz into each one.
“Not too much,” I warn him.
He smiles. Then pours a little more.
We lift one each. Taking a sip, then standing just with the glass between our hands. He lifts his mum’s glass and pours a dribble into the dirt, as if she’s enjoying her own.
“Dad got Ollie and me football tops,” he says quietly as he unzips his jacket, chest puffing out in red and white to show her. “And season tickets. Best Christmas ever…” His words trail off, nervous eyes sliding to me. I squeeze his shoulder.
“The best Christmas since we lost you,” he whispers. Something catches in my throat. Not pain, just the shape of what’s missing. “I love you, Mum.”
“We both do,” I add.
Liam steps toward his mother’s headstone, his hand resting on top, head bowed. I turn away; this moment is private. Even if he is my son.
As I do, I catch a flash of pink. Pink Wellington boots sitting on a deck chair by a nearby grave.
Antonia sits. Quiet. Undisturbed. Fairy lights draped over her son’s grave.
A small parcel wrapped in green with a bow at the base.
A plate balances on her lap, the remains of what looks like a turkey dinner.
Her eyes are closed. The winter sun has briefly appeared, and it streaks across her face.
I freeze. Not because I don’t know what to do, but because I shouldn’t be seeing this.
Her eyes open.
For a beat, there’s blankness, then recognition.
Our eyes lock, and for a second, neither of us looks away. Then her gaze shifts over my shoulder to my son, still talking to a headstone.
I nod. She does too.
“Let’s go home,” I say to Liam, glancing over my shoulder.
When I look back, she’s already standing, her back to me, packing up her things into a blue cooler.
Liam slips his arm through mine. She walks deeper into the rows of marble. The fairy lights stay on long after she disappears.