Chapter 20 - A New Kind of Christmas
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The following December, almost exactly one year to the day after the incident at the mall, my phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. A text message from Margaret.
Christmas shopping this Saturday?
I stared at the screen longer than necessary. For eleven years, the Saturday before Christmas had belonged to us. We would get coffee, brave the crowds, complain about the terrible holiday music, and find one ridiculous, overly expensive ornament that neither of us could justify buying.
The divorce had permanently altered my relationship with Daniel. It had not erased Margaret.
I typed back: Yes. See you at ten.
We met downtown. Chicago was freezing, the wind whipping off the lake. The mall looked almost exactly the same as it had a year prior. Same twinkling lights, same enormous three-story tree, same chaotic crowds.
For the first fifteen minutes, my chest felt tight with a phantom anxiety. Then, we passed the exact spot near the cosmetics counter where I had dropped my shopping bag.
I stopped walking. Margaret noticed and stopped beside me. “You okay, Emily?”
I looked across the open atrium floor. For a fleeting second, I could almost see the ghost of them standing there. Daniel in the charcoal coat, Vanessa holding his arm. I saw the ghost of the woman I used to be, standing beside Margaret, completely oblivious that her marriage was already over.
Then, I blinked, and the image vanished.
“I’m okay,” I said, turning to her with a genuine smile. “Really.”
According to Margaret, Daniel lived in Oak Park now. He had changed firms and was still actively attending therapy. He hadn't dated anyone seriously since Vanessa. Vanessa herself had disappeared from my life entirely; I heard through a mutual acquaintance that she had transferred to a different corporate office out of state.
I no longer checked Daniel’s social media. I no longer needed to know if losing me had punished him enough. That validation had once felt like life or death. Now, it was just irrelevant history.
At lunch, we sat near a large window overlooking the snow-covered street. Margaret reached into her oversized tote bag.
“I got you something,” she smiled.
“You weren’t supposed to buy me gifts, Margaret!”
“I’m your former mother-in-law. I no longer have to respect the rules.” She handed me a small, wrapped box.
Inside was a beautiful, handcrafted leather photo album. Embossed in tiny, elegant gold letters on the cover were two words: CHRISTMAS PHOTOS.
I stared at her, my mouth falling open. “Oh, you did not.”
Margaret laughed so loudly that the couple at the next table turned around to stare.
For months, the digital folder on my laptop with that exact name had held the worst, most painful evidence of my destroyed marriage. The hotel receipts, the jewelry charges, the manipulative text messages.
That evening, I went home, made a cup of tea, and opened my laptop. The toxic digital folder was still there. I clicked it, selected all the files, and hit delete. Gone.
Then I opened the leather album Margaret had given me. The first page was empty. I printed a photo we had taken that afternoon—the two of us outside the mall, noses red from the cold, laughing at something silly. I slid it beneath the clear plastic cover.
For the first time, "Christmas Photos" didn't mean evidence. It meant a life moving forward.
I poured myself a glass of wine and walked over to my apartment window, looking down at the snowy Chicago street. As I watched the headlights blur in the falling snow, my phone buzzed on the coffee table.
It wasn't Margaret. It wasn't an alarm.
It was a text from an unknown number.
May you like
I saw you at the mall today. You looked happy. If you ever want to get coffee, let me know. — Gavin from The Gilded Spoon.
I stared at the screen, a slow, intriguing smile spreading across my face. My past was finally buried, but the future? The future was entirely up to me.
