Chapter 7 - Jake's Christmas List
I didn't read it immediately.
That surprised Marcus.
"You're not going to look?"
"It's Jake's."
"He left it at the house."
"That doesn't make it mine."
Marcus shifted awkwardly on the porch.
The old Marcus would have rolled his eyes.
This one looked exhausted.
"There's something about me in there."
"Then you definitely shouldn't have read it."
"I know."
For once, he didn't defend himself.
I took the box.
"Thank you."
He nodded.
Then he looked through the doorway.
"Is he here?"
"Yes."
"Can I apologize?"
"No."
His jaw tightened automatically.
I watched him fight the reaction.
Then he nodded.
"Okay."
That tiny acceptance told me more than a speech would have.
I closed the door.
That evening, I gave Jake the notebook.
He hugged it.
"I thought I lost this!"
"Uncle Marcus found it."
His smile disappeared.
"Oh."
I sat beside him.
"He said there was something on the last page he thought I should see. But it's yours, so I didn't read it."
Jake stared at me.
"You didn't?"
"No."
He thought for a moment, then opened the notebook.
The first pages contained drawings.
Spaceships.
Dogs.
A surprisingly accurate picture of our neighbor Mr. Kaplan falling into a snowbank.
Then Jake reached the final page.
His expression changed.
He handed it to me.
At the top, in uneven handwriting, were the words:
THINGS I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS
New soccer cleats.
Lego Mars Base.
Mom to stop being sad after Grandma calls.
Grandpa to talk more.
Uncle Marcus to stop making jokes about Mom.
Everyone to like each other again.
A dog.
I read number six twice.
Then number seven made me laugh through my tears.
"A dog?"
Jake shrugged.
"Worth trying."
I pulled him against me.
"I'm sorry you noticed so much."
"Kids notice stuff."
"I know."
"Adults think we don't."
"I know that too."
He leaned against my shoulder.
"Is Uncle Marcus going to jail?"
The question caught me off guard.
"I don't know."
"Do you want him to?"
I considered my answer.
"I want him to take responsibility."
"That's not what I asked."
Nine years old.
Absolutely ruthless.
"I don't know what I want," I admitted.
Jake nodded.
That seemed acceptable.
Marcus eventually entered a negotiated resolution concerning the unauthorized funds. Restitution, asset liquidation, financial restrictions, and legal consequences followed.
There was no dramatic courtroom scene.
No judge pounding a gavel while I smiled from the gallery.
Real consequences were more boring and more painful.
Marcus sold his car.
Closed Northbridge.
Moved into a studio apartment.
Took a salaried logistics job through someone who knew nothing about our family.
Every month, a restitution payment arrived.
The first was $423.18.
I stared at it.
Three years earlier, I would have laughed at the amount.
Now I understood what it represented.
For once, Marcus was paying something himself.
Mom started therapy.
She didn't tell me initially.
Dad did.
"She's trying," he said.
"Good."
"That's all?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know."
I smiled.
"Neither do I."
Mom sent Jake letters.
I screened them.
The first three were about how much she missed him.
I returned them.
The fourth was different.
Dear Jake,
What I did at Christmas was cruel. You did nothing to deserve it. I was angry at your mother and chose to hurt you because I knew hurting you would hurt her. Adults are supposed to protect children from their anger, not use children to carry it. I failed you.
I stopped reading.
Then started again.
You do not have to forgive me. You do not have to see me. I hope someday I can become someone you feel safe around.
I gave Jake the letter.
He read it quietly.
"Do I have to answer?"
"No."
"Can I?"
"Yes."
He wrote:
Grandma,
Thank you for saying sorry. I'm still mad. Also the gravy was too salty.
I laughed so hard I had to sit down.
Then I cried.
Jake added:
Maybe someday we can have lunch but I pick the restaurant.
Mom's response arrived two days later.
Deal.
Their first meeting happened in June.
A public diner.
Forty-five minutes.
I sat beside Jake.
Mom didn't touch him until he initiated a hug at the end.
She cried afterward.
Not during.
I respected that.
Life didn't return to normal.
It became something else.
Something healthier because nobody was pretending.
Dad attended Jake's soccer games.
Mom learned to ask instead of demand.
Marcus stayed away.
Until September.
Jake's tenth birthday.
A package arrived without a return address.
Inside were brand-new soccer cleats.
And a note.
I know gifts don't fix things. These aren't supposed to. Happy birthday, kid. —Uncle Marcus
Jake stared at them.
Then at me.
"Can I keep them?"
"Your choice."
He smiled.
"Cool."
That evening, my phone buzzed.
Marcus.
I almost ignored it.
Then answered.
"Hello?"
His voice was quiet.
"Did they fit?"
"Yes."
"Good."
A pause.
Then he said, "Emily?"
"What?"
"I'm sorry."
I waited.
"For what?"
He gave a weak laugh.
"You really make people say it."
"Yes."
So he did.
All of it.
The money.
The lies.
The resentment.
Christmas.
Turning Mom and Dad against me because my success made him feel like a failure.
When he finished, I was crying.
But I didn't tell him everything was okay.
It wasn't.
Instead, I said:
"That's the first honest conversation we've had in twenty years."
May you like
He whispered, "I know."
And for the first time, I wondered whether our family story might have another chapter.
